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THE BEST CURR£^^r h STANDARD l.ITFR^T! I f 


Vol. n No. 850. Jan. 31, 1S87. Annual Subscription, |30.00. | 


MY hero! 


BY 

MRS. FORRESTER 

Author ok “FAIR WOMEN,” “ONCE AGAIN,” j 
Etc., Etc. ^ 


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The Best Utterance 

— ON THE — 

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“ Solutions Sooiales,'* translated by Marie Howland. 


“Social Solutions,” a semi-monthly pamphlet, containing each 
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propaganda in Europe. 

PubUshed as regular issues of the “Lovell Library,” by the 
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at ten cents per number ; the Bub*KJdption of $1.00 secures the de- 
livery of the complete series. 


JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 


W f Yes^y Street' 


HEW TOBK, 


3 


MT HEEO 


BY 

MRS. FORRESTER 


l-rTHOR OF “fair WOMEN,” “ONCE AGAIN,” “ MF LO».D AND 
MY LADY,” ETC., ETC. 

M 



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NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street 


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MRS. FORRESTER’S WORKS 


CONTAINED IN LOVELL’S LIBRARY, 

NO. 

760 Fair Women, ...... 

818 Once Again, 

843 My l.ord and My I.ady, .... 

844 Dolores, ....... 

845 T Have Lived and Loved, 

850 My Hero, . 

859 Viva, ....... 

860 Omnia Vanitas, ...... 

861 Diana Carew, ...... 

862 From Olympus to Hades, .... 

863 Rhona, ....... 

864 Roy and Viola, ...... 

865 June, 

866 Mignon, . . . , . . 

867 A Young Man’s Fancy, . . • V . 


PRICK. 

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20 «. 


V 


MY HERO. 


BY MRS. FORRESTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

IN THE SOUTHCOTE WOODS. 

“ In the mute summer afternoon 
They trembled to some undertune 
Of music in the silver air; 

Great pleasure was it to be there 
Till green turned duskier, and the moon 
Colored the cornsheaves like golden hair 
****** 

But some three hours before the moon 
The air, still eager from the noon, 

Flagged after heat, not wholly dead; 

Against the stem I leant my head; 

The color soothed me like a tune, 

Green leaves all round the gold and red.” 

It is the twentieth of July— my birtliday — a day wlien the skj' 
is one cloudless sheet of azure, and the sun sliines down with an 
intensity that promises to ripen the backward corn in a day from 
golden yellow to harvest brown; a heavenly day in theory, 
practically a torment to the flesh —a day that makes one’s soul 
long after the water-brooks, and one’s mind revert with tender 
longing to a trout stream shadowed by ancient trees such as one 
wots of. In short, a day when one is unbearably hot and un- 
(jnenchably thirsty, and, being a believer in the transmigration 
of souls, would like to travel backward, and enter into the body 
of yon patient cow, wading knee-deep in tJie delicious pond, 
sheltered by a spreading elm. 

The twentieth of July, and I am seventeen — sweet seventeen. 
WJiy sweet, I wonder? To my thinking, the most awkward of 
ages, when, having still a child’s tastes and feelings, one is nev- 
ertheless expected to possess the discretion of a woman; when 
one, still hankering after a game of romps, tears one’s gown 
therein incontinently; when one is the subject of frequent snubs; 
when a word brings the tears to one’s eyes, a look the blush to 
one’s cheeks; when one has no tact, no savoirfaire, no power of 
self-control or command, and is altogether the plaything of cir- 
cumstance; like thistledo\Yh, blown hither and thither by every 


9 


71/1’ HERO. 


breath of vvinrl. Why nf)t rather sweet twenty-five? Then one 
is mistress of oneself, of all the worhl, if one has only learnt 
JFrom Time to make good nse of the experience he scatters broad- 
cast in our laps; one can take all and give nothing; may boa 
Talleyrand in a small feminine way; a 8t. Paul, all things to all 
men;* may twist mankind to our own wills and uses. Helas! 
that too has its drawbacks. The freshness of a premiere jeu- 
7iesse is lost; one looks forward with horror to a time when 
younger rivals will tell our belated admirers, with a scornful 
lip-curl, that we are passees, wdien we are conscious, exagger- 
atedly conscious, of every dawning line and crease, and appre- 
hend the loss of youth as the end of all things glad. 

“ Que fais-je clans eette galereE I was going to tell you my 
story, beginning easily and naturally (so I thought) with my 
seventeenth birthday, and here I am putting down reflections of 
a later growth, that had no part nor lot, I am sure, in my young 
mind then. But one forgets — forgets at twenty-flve how one 
thought, looked, almost how one acted at seventeen. I will 
bmy my head in my hands, and strive to bring back the old 
time, after which I long now just because it is an irrevoca- 
ble past, not for the reason that it was peculiarly happy or joy- 
ous. 

It is half past three in the afternoon. My sisters have mo- 
nopolized all the sofas in the house — namely, three, and are 
sleeping heavily and stertoriously after an early dinner of roast 
beef and fruit pudding. I know that’s not important to the 
story, but it’s a kind of trial trip to memory, and makes me 
think I shall be more successful in remembering the details of 
my young life, than I apprehended when I first took pen in 
hand. 

On this midsummer afternoon sleep is not for mine eyes, nor 
rest for my body — at all events within the walls of our brick 
mansion, commodious enough, but unshaded by timber, to keep 
us cool in summer and damp in winter. AVe congratulated our- 
selves in the latter season, but in the former I am bound to say 
we anathematized Fate and the man who had laid out our orna- 
mental garden. The house, which has for many years been in 
^ the possession of the family, stands surrounded by its acres of 
grass and corn-fields, is solid and roomy, has stables and farm 
buildings at the back, boasts a front-garden, garnished by many 
''and variously-shaped flower-beds; aud a most useful and exten- 
sive back- garden, devoted to the more substantial wants of the 
household. True, there are lilac-bushes and laburnum-trees, 
but these are hardly shady or thick-leaved enough to protect one 
comfortably from a meridian sun; and there are shady apple 
and pear-trees in the kitchen-garden, if one could surmount the 
trifling objection of planting a chair on the mold in the middle 
.. of a young carrot-bed. 

Not finding shelter to my liking near home, I propose to hie me 
away to my favorite haunt— the Southcote Woods. The means 
to the end are painful and toilsome, the distance from Hailing 
Farm, my home, to these same woods,, being three quarters of a 
mile at least, and the road to them lying through the midst of 


MY HERO. 


3 


unsheltered corn-fields. Bat I pluck up my courage; the haven 
lies green and cool before me; I pull my broad-brimmed hat. 
with faded ribbons, from its peg in the hall, possess myself of a 
gingham umbrella, an heirloom in the family, a book, and a 
bunch of juicy red-cheeked cherries, and begin my pilgrimage. 

“ Doris! Doris!” cries a voice from an upper window, as I un- 
latch the garden-gate with a click, “ where are you going ?” 

I look up in a little trepidation, lest my intended excursion 
should receive a check. 

“To the Woods, mamma,” I answer. 

“ My dear, you’ll have a sunstroke, and be brought home like 
Martha Carson was the other day.” 

“ Oh! no, mamma, I sha’n’t. Look here,” hoisting the 
family umbrella. 

“Whatever do you want to go for ? I wouldn’t walk half the 
distance in this broiling sun for a thousand pounds.” 

“ I don’t think one feels it so much moving, mamma,” I say, 
with Macchiavellian policy, “it’s standing still that’s so dan- 
gerous.” 

“Well, well, go along then, my dear,” cries mamma — (the 
most unsuspecting of mortals) — hastily; “ but I’m sure your com- 
plexion will be ruined.” 

“ Good-bye!” I look up laughing; it seems so utterly ridiculous 
to bestow any thought on one’s complexion, and I have never 
known the happiness of a red face in my life. I think to be 
apple-cheeked, like my sister Fanny, the perfection of all love- 
liness. 

On my way I hasten, not stopping to-day to look at the golden 
shades of the wheat-stalks, or to pluck the blue corn-flowers and 
scarlet poppies, the star-faced daisies and peach-pink mallow. 
I hie on my way with nimble feet — for no amount of exertion 
could make me hotter than I already am, and the faster I speed 
the sooner will my goal be reached. Midway I begin to flag, 
my heart repents me that I have come, but it is as far now to 
return as to go on; so, faint and toil-worn, I crawl on, taking 
now and again a sudden valiant spurt that sends me well on my 
way. At last my earthly paradise is reached— never has it 
seemed so fair, so dear in my longing eyes. An awkward stile 
gives or prevents ingress, as the case may be; but to my tutored 
feet it is easy enough. A climb, a jump, and in another moment 
I lie panting, exhausted, but supremely happy, in a bed of fern 
and moss, under the shadow of trees through which the little 
sunbeams have not played hide-and-seek this many a year. 

“ The end of labor is to enjoy rest.” Who said that ? I know 
I saw it in a book once — ah, me, how true! Never, I ween, did 
old Nilus’ splendid queen, reclining on her couch rainbow-hued 
with Tyrian dyes, eying with lazy content the golden waters, 
taste such sweet luxury as the little pale straw-hatted, cotton- 
gowned English girl I w^rite of. 

There, supremely hapx)y, I lie among the soft, cooi moss, can- 
opied by broad green leaves, soothed with the tender cooing of 
<loves, the whilom piping of the throstle to his fellows, and 
once now and again the sweet not(^ of the blackbird. The host 


4 


MY HERO. 


of other selfish, idle little birds are silent, as their wont is in 
July; sing they will not, quarrel they will, and do violently on 
every occasion. Grave dissensions arise in the house, generally 
terminating in a division; and tlien the loosened leaves come 
floating, wafting down on my recumbent frame. 

In a hollow some fifty yards distant lies a big pool of water, 
dark and steely in shadow, and my eyes rest with intense con- 
tentment upon it as I eat my cherries with lingering enjoyment. 
What a lovely place it is! I think that gratefully, lovingly, 
every time I come, and bless Mr. Carruthers, its owner, for the 
kind permission that exempts us from the rank of trespassers 
threatened with the terrors of the law by that big ominous black 
board at the entrance. Secretly in my heart I rejoice with self- 
ish joy at the exclusion of the public from my loved haunt 
(not that the public in our part comprises a very large number 
of persons); but now I may and do come here for days together 
without seeing a soul, and can take my ease, as it suits me, with 
the maximum of ease and the minimum of elegance. 

In the spring-time, the dear sweet spring-time that I love, 
there grow purple hyacinths in the wood and big wild violets, 
with roots of pale primroses clustering thick round the stems of 
the big girthed trees. Small delicate lilies of the valley, wood 
anemones, pink orcliises, old-fashioned bachelor’s buttons, blos- 
som there in thick profusion; and I love them all and each, and 
bind them into great nosegays, which my sister scornfully dub 
rubbish. Then there are banks white with strawberry blossom, 
but I spare those until they grow into tempting red berries — no 
longer. 

The spring flowers are gone now, and in their place bloom 
blue veronica and golden celendine, wild convolvulus and 
honeyscuckle, dog-roses and sweet wild thyme — oh, and a hun- 
dred others that I have no names for, but know full well by 
sight. 

Later there will be big blackberries and nuts; then my young 
brother Harry will consent to join me, and at the close of a 
happy day we shall return to the paternal roof bramble- torn and 
fruit stained, satisfied to our heart’s core, and, as everybody 
says, “ not fit to be seen.” 

Solitude has been sweet to me from my childhood up — that is, 
occasional solitude, for there is little of tlie recluse in my com- 
position. But I am a dreamer of dreams — I inhabit a world of 
my own, created in my brain from many a fairy story and le- 
gend of old. My aspirations and yearnings are not after the 
great of this world, of whom I know nothing, save from the 
gossip of my sisters as they sit over their embroidery— the Mar- 
quis of This and Lord Charles That are very insignificant person- 
ages in my eyes compared with the Prince Charmings of my 
fairly lore or the chivalrous knights of early ages. 

Though I have reached sweet seventeen, though I stand 
“ where the brook and river meet,” I still retain a lingering love 
of fairy tales— the very book now lying in my lap is Andersen’s 
“ Marchen.” 


MY HERO,. 


5 


CHAPTER II. 

THE LITTLE MERMAID. 

“ Aber was kummern mich kunftige Schmerzen, 

Und das sie verganglich ist, diese Lust? 

Bleibt es doch Fruhling in meinem Herzen, 

Bleibt es doch Fruhling in meiner Brust.” 

Considerable time has elapsed since first I laid me down on 
the soft couch of fern and moss canopied by shaded green, I 
am deliciously cool now, and can think about the pursuit of liter- 
ature. I turn to my pet story, for fairy tales bear a great deal 
more reading than other books. It is the story of the little Mer- 
maid: and soon lam deep in her woes, thrilled with as absorbing 
an interest as though it were my first, instead of my twentieth 
reading. 

With my heroine I lie rocked on the billows of the blue water, 
I look on the beautiful dark-eyed young prince and lose my 
heart, with her I seek until I find him in the palace of marble, 
and my soul yearns to be a mortal that he may love me. I trav- 
erse the forests of seaweed, where hideous monsters glare at 
me, to the witch's cave, and she changes my fish’s tail to human 
legs, that when I move quiver w ith sharp pain, as though a 
thousand daggers had been plunged into me. And for her gift 
I give her my beautiful voice, so that I can never more tell the 
prince how I love him, save with the mute anguish of my eyes. 

Drowsiness creeps over me, my eyelids begin to droop on my 
heavy eyes, but so w^ell I know the story, that I can go on just 
as well without the book. It seems to come more real, more 
vividly before me now — I am the very mermaid herself dancing 
before the beautiful prince, w^hile a sharp pain smites me at 
every step. I feel all the anguish of jealousy when he chooses 
the fair princess for his bride. I take my last lingering look at 
him the. morning after his marriage, and plunge the dagger in 
my heart. With a great shudder, I wake: am I still dreaming, 
or has the fairy prince become visible to my mortal eyes ? I 
start to a sitting posture — there, leaning against the trunk of a 
tree watching me intently, is a being handsomer than any wood- 
cut of fairy prince my eyes have ever beheld. He does not move 
as I gaze with awe upon him: but a slight smile jiarts his lips, or 
rather his gold-browm beard, as he says coolly: 

“ I was waiting to see if you wmuld vanish. I thought 1 had 
surprised the guardian nymph of this old oak.” 

My tongue seems chained to my mouth as I gaze at him in 
utter bewilderment. 

“ You were asleep,” he says, coming a little tow^ard me, “ until 
a shower of acorns fell and w^oke you.” 

Still I can say nothing, but am as dumb as the poor mermaid. 

‘•Will you waive the ceremony of an introduction, and iet me 
talk to you a little ?” he continues, throwing himself down on the 
moss a short distance from me, “ it’s so stupid having no one to 
talk to, isn’t it ?” 

“ Yes,” I muttered at last. 


e 


MY HERO. 


‘"These woods are very pleasant on a hot day, aren’t they ?” he 
asks, with a look of benevolent amusement at my awkwardness 
on his handsome face. 

“Yes,” I murmur again — it is the only word that occurs to 
me. 

I venture to look up at him, but his eyes are fixed on me, so I 
drop mine. 

“Do you often come here?” His voice and manner are as 
composed and familiar as if he had known me all my life. 

“ Ye — es. Mr. Carruthers told papa that — that any of his 

family might ” 

“Of course, of course,” he interrupts me. “Mr. Carruthers 
would be only too much honored.” 

“Are — are you Mr. Carruthers?” I exclaim, with wide open 
eyes, as a sudden inspiration dawns on me, 

“ No,” he answers, with a smile that makes him look less 
pleasant than I have hitherto thought him. “ I am not Mr. Car 
ruthers. I had the misfortune to come into the world twelve 
months later than that happy individual, so I am only what peo- 
ple call ‘ a poor devil of a younger brother. ‘ ” 

‘ ‘ His brother ?” I ask timidly, a little but not very much shocked 
at the last sentence. 

“Yes, Wilfred Carruthers, at your service,” raising his straw 
hat with a gesture of mock politeness. 

Feeling that I have been too inquisitive, I become suffused 
with blushes. Had ever any one such an unfortunate trick of 
getting red on the smallest occasion as I ? 

Mr. Carruthers looks away, and does not seem to notice it. 

“ Did you come here all alone ?” he asks presently. 

“Oh, yes. It was so hot at home; we have no trees near the 
house, and they did not want me.” 

“Would it be impertinent to ask where ‘home’ is, and who 
‘ they ’ are ?” he says, looking pleasantly at me with his wonder- 
ful blue eyes. 

“ I live at Hailing Farm, my name is Keane, and I meant my 
sisters when I said they,” I hasten to reply, 

Mr. Carruthers bends his head in acknowledgment of the in- 
formation. 

“ And what is your name — your Christian name ?” he asks, in 
a caressing voice; and looking shyly up at him I begin to feel 
that I could sit forever answering him questions and gazing at 
his handsome face. 

“ My name is Doris.” 

“ Doris!” he repeats after me, as if surprised, Then I hear him 
murmur softly to himself: 

“ Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 

Call me Lalage or Doris. 

Only, only call me thine ” 

“ How far is Hailing Farm from here ?’' he goes on aloud, if 
you don’t think me too impertinently curious. The name is fa- 
miliar to me, but I am so rarely in this neighborhood.” 

Pointing across the corn-fields, “It is over there, three fields 
away,” I say. 


MY HERO. 7 

'' And you came all that way in the broiling sun ?” he asks in 
astonishment, 

' Oh, it was hot,-' 1 admit, but I had these,’ pointing to my 
broad-brimmed hat and the family gingham. 

Ever such a little smile curls his lip, it makes me ungratefully 
ashamed for the first time in my life of that venerable friend of 
the house, and more of my own poor shabby garments. 

I think he reads my feelings, for he says kindly, 

“ I don’t think even I should mind the heat protected by that 
hat and umbrella.” 

Seized with a sudden idea of the ludicrous, I laugh aloud, I 
fancy I behold this exquisite trudging along with the gingham: 
it would not have seemed much more out of place in the deli- 
cate hands of the fairy prince. 

“ What are you reading ?” he asks, lazily stretching out his 
hand for my book. 

“ Andersen’s fairy tales.” I answer, handing it over to him. 

“ But you should read them in the original,” he says, after a 
glance at the cover. 

“ I don’t know German,” I reply, rather ashamed of my igno- 
rance. 

“ French ?” This interrogatively. 

I shake my head. “ Very little,” more ashamed still. 

“ And are you fond of fairy stories ?” 

“ Very,” I reply, enthusiastically this time. 

“ How old are you, if it is not an impertinent question?” 

“Seventeen to-day.” 

“ Indeed! May I wish you many happy returns of the day ?’* 
he asks very courteously. 

Surely, I think, no fairy prince ever had more fascinating 
manners than this handsome being at my feet. 

“ Would you like me to lend you some fairy tales?” he says 
presently. “ I have some that I am quite sure you never read. 
I translated them from the German myself.” 

“ Oh, thank you,” I cry, delighted. 

“ How shall I get them to you?” he asks. “Will you come 
to-morrow and fetch them ?” 

“Yes, indeed, thank you.” 

“ Do you know a very big old tree, with a hollow trunk, about 
five hundred yards further up in the woods ?” 

I nod assent, 

“ Then I’ll put the book there for you, or, if I can, I will bring 
it myself about four o’clock.” 

“ Thank you very, very much,” I exclaim gratefully. 

“ You have nothing to thank me for; the pleasure is mine,” 
says Mr. Carruthers, with his wonderful smile. 

*“ I must go now,” I utter regretfully, preparing to arise. 

He jumps up, putting out his hands to raise me. Bitterly 
ashamed am I to give mine, stained green with moss, and blue 
with cherry -juice — more than ever when he regards them atten- 
tively. 

“ It is seven o’clock,” taking out his watch. 


8 MY HERO. 

“ Then I shall be late for tea,” exclaim I, with some trepida- 
tion. , . 

"And I have to dress for dinner. Good-bye, Miss Doris, 
with outstretched hand for my reluctant one. " You won’t for- 
get to-morrow.” 

" No, indeed.” As if I could forget. 

" Let me help you over the stile.” 

" Oh! no, thank you,” aind I bound over in a moment. He 
stands w^atching me, I know by instinct; not for all the world 
would I put up that obnoxious gingham in his sight — sooner be 
.carried home smitten with sunstroke, like Martha Carson! 


CHAPTER HI. 

HAL LING FARM. 

“ I thought it would be something worth the pain 
Of parting, to look once in those deep eyes, 

And take from them an answering look again.” 

The sun beats fiercely down upon me, only a shade less fiercely 
than when I passed through the corn-fields three hours before; 
but I am supremely, Spartanfy indifferent to it now. On I walk 
with buoyant step, radiant with delight at my adventure, my 
thoughts full of Wilfred Carruthers. How handsome, how 
noble, how distinguished-looking he is! I can recall every feat- 
ure of his perfect face. 

The great dark blue eyes shaded by black lashes, the straight 
nose, the curved lips, and the pearly teeth only half hidden by 
his golden browm beard; and hair of darkest brown curling 
gracefully round the classic Greek head. Ah! that is a man fit 
to be a hero if ever man was — tall, lithe, strong, beautiful alto- 
gether. So I think, falling down mentally and w’orshiping him. 
In all my life I have never spoken to a man of his position. My 
sisters go to balls where they meet fashionable men, and dance 
with them sometimes; but I stay at home, being of course only 
a child, seeing no male society from year’s end to year’s end, ex- 
cept that of my father and brothers, the clergyman and the 
doctor. Hitherto no thoughts of the sterner sex have troubled 
me, I have never looked forward to such a thing as a lover. 
Once, two or three years ago, I was an object of tender interest 
to the red-headed son of a lawyer in the town, who had shown 
his affection in the very practical way of presenting me fre- 
quently with jam tarts and toffee. But having unfortunately 
upon one occasion sat upon the offering as I was going to my 
dancing lesson, and spoiled a pink muslin frock, I was forbidden 
to receive any more presents from my admirer, and the acquaint- 
ance gradually dropped. 

To-day, however, suddenly, at once and without warning, on 
this my seventeenth birthday, my Fate has come to me, and I 
fell hopelessly, utterly, head over ears in love with Mr. Wilfred 
( )aiTuthers. 

At that point I stop, as is the wont of young girls who dip 
their feet the first time into the brook, I do not picture to my- 
self that he vvill think of me, that J shah ever be anything to 


MY HERO. 


9 


him, or he to me; but rest in simple content that I have seen 
this demi-god, that he has been good to me, and that I am going 
to see him again— perhaps — to-morrow. 

There is one drawback to this delicious adventure — the impos- 
sibility of confiding it to any one, and I want so to talk about 
him ; to expatiate on his beauty, his grace, his goodness. 

For all the world I dare not tell them at home what has hap- 
pened— they might forbid me to go again to the woods, and if I 
should never see him any more— the hot blood courses into my 
cheeks with terror at the bare thought. Then a sudden feeling 
of guiltiness creeps over me— am I not doing wrong in conceal- 
ing this meeting ? Is it not deceiving my parents ? 

“ What harm can there be in it!” I try to comfort myself by 
arguingc At least I will wait until to-morrow.” But the drop 
of poison is already infused into my cup of sweetness. My mind 
is not at rest. 

When I reach home, they are all assembled at tea. 

“ Late as usual,” says Fanny, my elder sister. 

“Where have you been in this heat?” exclaims Julia, the 
second. 

“ There’s no more tea,” cries Anna, the third, who presides 
over the tea-pot. 

“Come along and sit by me. Cissy,” says Jack, my eldest 
brother, whose pet I am. 

We are seven, not according to the reckoning of Wordsworth’s 
little maid; but seven, all alive, strong, healthy, and at this mo- 
ment assembled under one roof. Jack has a farm of his own, 
some five miles distant. Fred is with a land agent, and Harry, 
the youngest, goes to the grammar-school in the town. We 
four girls of course live at home: my three sisters have been to 
school, and are now finished young ladies, but my education 
has been somewhat desultory, from having been undertaken 
first by one and then the other, and finally completed by a year 
at Miss Bancroft’s establishment in Colton, where I realh'^ did 
learn something, thanks to the efforts of a painstaking teacher, 
who conceived an affection for me. But I am at home now for 
good, and know my sisters are rather inclined to look upon me 
as an interloper, useful enough to run up and down-stairs, to 
fetch and carry for them, but utterly unfit to share in their con- 
versation or amusements. I am not at all \inhappy on this ac- 
count. The boys all dote on me, my father and mother show 
me as much affection if less consideration than they give my 
sisters. Senior es priores. of course, the youngest always has 
something to put up with. 

I do not want to go to balls, nor to be dressed grandly, nor to 
attract the attention of any gentlemen who come to see Fanny, 
or Julia, or Anna. I am delighted to read my books, to romp 
with the boys, to ride on a rough pony that Jack gave me, and 
to enjoy my solitude in the Southcote woods. So on the whole 
J think we are quite as united as most large families, and if 
thei-e is any quarreling it is generally in the drawing-room, 
where irty sisters sit at fancy^-work all the morning. They 


10 


MY HERO. 


sx)en(l a great deal of time in lamenting the decadence of the 
Keane family and fortunes. 

My father and his fathers for many generations have been 
squires of some degree in a northern county ; the present repre- 
sentative of the race having speculated or been robbed — at all 
events having got rid of his money in some way, has for the last 
twenty years been obliged to live quietly at our present home, 
Hailing Farm, left him by a distant relation. 

We should be swells in our own county, my sisters say, but 
here in the exclusive neighborhood of Colton we are not thought 
very much of, as being poor we cannot entertain or make much 
show. People just notice us; my sisters go to the public balls in 
Colton, and are now and then invited to a few private ones, but 
we cannot certainly flatter ourselves on being reckoned in the 
list of county families. Not one whit does this trouble me, 
though it is a source of very bitter mortification to my sisters, 
imbued as they are with extremely grand notions. I am too 
much occupied with my own domestic affairs, namely, my cat 
and three kittens, two dogs, a pig, and pony (both presents from 
Jack), and an important family of hens and chickens. 

Come and sit by me. Cissy ” (the boys always call me Cissy), 
cries Jack as I enter; and gladly enough I fling my hot, ex- 
hausted limbs into the chair he puts for me. 

“Why, Cis, wherever have you been ?” cries Harry. “ I went 
to look for you to show you my young rabbits, but you’d ske- 
daddled, as the Yankees say.” 

“I’ve been up in the woods, Harry,” I return innocent answer. 

“Why, you little goose!” cries Jack. “You never walked 
across those fields this broiling afternoon 1” 

“But I did indeed. Jack; and oh! it was so delicious, you 
can’t think. I’m so thirsty, Anna, do be quick and give me my 
tea.” 

“ Tliere isn’t any,” says Anna. “You should come, in in 
proper time.” 

“ Stuff and humbug!” shouts Jack irately. He is always span 
ring with my sisters on my accountc “ Give her her tea, Anna, 
or I’ll come and get it myself.” 

“ You may if you like,” retorts Anna, holding the tea-pot with 
the spout downward, to show that it is literally empty. 

“Upon my life, it’s too bad the way you treat that child,” 
cries my big brother, angrily. 

“ Never mind,” I interrupt, for I cannot bear to see Jack sent 
out. “ Give me the milk.” 

“ There’s no milk either,” replies Anna. 

“ Don’t make a row,” interrupts Fred, the general peace- 
maker, seeing that Jack looks black as thunder. “I’ll go and 
get some;” and, catching up the jug, he darts off. 

“Really, Fred,” deprecates Fanny, “I wish you’d ring the 
bell, and let the servants bring what is wanted;” but Fred is gone 
before she is half through the sentence. Back he comes in a 
moment with the jug replenished. 

Jac^k plies me with everything on the table, so I am not a very 
injured individn^j, after all. Homehow I lack mv usual robust 


MY HERO, 


11 


and healthy appetite to-night— whether it is the heat or excite- 
ment of my adventure I can’t say; but Jack looks seriously con- 
cerned, for he holds firm by the doctrine, that if you cannot eat, 
there must be something very wrong about you. 

“ I say, Cis,” cries Harry, “ you missed such a treat this after- 
noon.” 

‘‘What?” I inquire. 

“ Why, Mr. Carruthers canie past herewith his team, and a lot 
of the officers from Colton with him. And those great lazy girls 
were all asleep on the sofas, or they’d have seen ’em too. I say, 
Ju, the fellow with the red beard you’re always going into Col- 
ton to look after wqs with ’em.” 

“ What a story I How dare you say such a thing!” cries Julia, 
red and angTy. 

Harry makes a face at her across the table; boys of fourteen, 
except in juvenile story-books, are seldom pleasant of manner 
to their sisters. 

“ Ugh! you spitfire! You know you did! And Fan was after 
the black one, but he wasn’t there.” 

“ HaiTy!” I begin, hoping devoutly I shall not blush. “ What 
is Mr. Carruthers like ?” 

Jack turns to look at me; and then of course I am crimson in 
a moment. 

“Why, little Cis is coming out!” he laughs good-naturedly. 
“ I never heard her ask a question about a man before. That 
comes of being seventeen, I suppose.” 

“ Oh, he’s a big, good-looking chap,” says Harry, in reply to 
my question. 

‘ ‘ Fair or dark ?” I venture again, determined to hear some- 
thing of the man whom I look upon as the natural enemy of my 
hero. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Light, I suppose; sandy whiskers and 
blue eyes.” 

“Sandy!” retorts Anna, indignantly. “Why, they’re the 
most lovely gold color. He’s wonderfully handsome.” 

“ When did you see him, pray, miss ?” inquires Harry, scorn- 
fully. 

“ The other day in Colton, walking up the High Street with 
Lady Flora Lyon. She’s trying to catch him, I know, by the 
way she looked at him.” 

“ Is it the same way Ju looks at the red-headed chap ?” says 
Harry, dropping his eyes with a comical leer; and every one 
bursts out laughing except Ju, who gets up in a rage, and tries 
to box his ears. But he dodges her hand, and is out of the room 
in a moment, stopping at the door to make a derisive gesture. 

The party breaks up. My sisters go to don their hats for a 
walk. I stroll into the garden, hanging on Jack’s arm, while he 
smokes his pipe. 

Jack is the eldest of the family, a big, broad-shouldered, good- 
looking fellow of eight-and-twenty; and I am his favorite sister. 
He pets, fondles, and spoils me to his heart’s content; and if 
ever any one in this world appreciated being loved and made 
much of, it’s I, Doris Keane, 


12 


MY HERO. 


Cissy,” he begins, as we stroll down the road together in the 
delicious twilight, “ I have a treat for you.” 

“ Oh! you dear thing!” I cry eagerly. “ What is it?” 

“ I’ve got the mum’s consent, and you’re to come home with 
me to-night and sleep at the farm, and I’ll bring you back this 
time to-morrow.” 

My heart almost stands still. Any other time I should have 
been frantic with joy at such a proposal; now as I think of Wib 
fred Carruthers, the hollow oak, and my fairy tales, it sounds in 
my ears like some awful sentence of banishment. 

We are leaning against a gate; there is a profound hush all 
around; a delicious steamy scent comes up /rom the ground as 
the dew begins to fall, and out in the dark blue vault of heaven 
come shining myriads of golden stars. 

A feeling almost of agony creeps over me. The horror of seem- 
ing ungracious to my dear, kind brother, the impossibility of tell- 
ing him the truth, and the awful alternative of not meeting Wil- 
fred. Carruthers, present themselves all at once to my mind. 

“Why, Cissy, you don’t say anything ?” exclaims Jack, as I 
remain silent. “ I thought you’d have been wild to go.” 

“ So I should, Jack, but, but ” 

“ But what, child ?” 

There is another long pause. 

“ But what, child?” asks Jack again, a little impatiently this 
time. ^ 

“ Oh, if you’d only say some other day instead,” I exclaim 
eagerly. 

“ But I can’t. To-morrow is the only day I have free for an 
age. Why, I thought you’d have been ready to jump out of your 
shoes at the bare idea!” and Jack turns away evidently an- 
noyed. 

“ What is it you’re going to do?” he inquires presently with 
some irritation as I still remain silent. “ I suppose you can tell 
me that.” 

“ Oh, Jack, dear, dear Jack,” I cry, putting my arms around 
his neck, and dragging his head down to me; “ don’t ask me, 
dear, darling Jack! And don’t say a word to any one of them 
about it. Promise me, oh, do, do promise me!” 

Jack gazes at me bewildered. 

“ What on earth has come to the child!” he mutters. “ I 
could understand if it was one of the others. I should know 
they were off to meet some fellow, but it can’t be that with you, 
Cis ?” 

At this moment I feel the guiltiest creature in all the world. 

“ Will you promise me,” I whisper, putting all my powers of 
pleading into one concentrated sob of eagerness. 

“ Well, well, I suppose I must,” he answers rather crossly; 
“ but you’re a strange young puss— that comes of being seven- 
teen, I suppose— girls do get odd. But I say, Cis, you’re sure 
you’re not going to be up to any mischief ?” 

“ Oh, no, no indeed. Jack,” I cry eagerly— for thought of mis- 
chief I have honestly none. 


HERO. 


13 


CHAPTER IV. 

AN INVENTORY. 

“ Behind the veil, forbidden, 

Shut up from sight. 

Love, is there sorrow hidden. 

Is there delight? 

Is joy thy dower or grief, 

White rose of weary leaf: 

Late rose whose life is brief, whose loves are light?” 

When I retire to my room, on the night of this eventful day, 
I carefully extinguish the candle and sit down by tlie open win- 
dow, resting my chin in my hands. It is a sultry night, with 
only the faintest breath of wind stirring, but I am grateful for 
even that small mercy, and lean my head eagerly forward to 
drink it in. As the heavy dew falls on the parched earth, it 
sends up a fragrant steamy odor, and in at my window floats 
the sweet scent of dark red roses and yellow jasmine climbing 
beneath. The moon has come out now, and my eyes wander 
dreamily across the corn-fields and meadows, away to Colton, 
where the pointed spires of our cathedral stand clear, against the 
sky. 

I am thinking, of course, about my fairy prince, every feeling- 
heightened by the romance of the hour and the calm beauty of 
the scene; thinking of the meeting in the woods, longing keenly 
for the morrow; impatient of the night hours to be given to dull 
sleep, nnd the homely avocations that lie between me and the 
next sight of my hero. I have heard the boys their lessons many 
a time, and am grown familiar with Greek heroes; now it pleases 
me to fancy Mr. Wilfred Carruthers their prototype, with his 
classic head, ambrosial curls, deep colored eyes, and fine curved 
lips. In my heart I am quite incensed to think of his elder 
brother as big, strong, and handsome; there seems 'no chance of 
his pining away to make room for one on whose brows the dig- 
nity of empire sits (to my way of thinking) — that being “ only a 
poor devil of a younger brother!” 

There is rather a spice about that expression now I repeat it 
to myself, perhaps because the enormity of pronouncing the 
word devil has been duly impressed on my young mind. It 
occurs to me for the first time now to wonder what Mr. Car- 
ruthers thinks of me. Nothing very complimentary, I surmise 
with tingling cheeks as the remembrance of my tangled locks, 
stained fingers, and rumpled gown rises vividly before me. I 
wonder with sudden horror if the cherries had stained my mouth 
as well as my hands — several times he had seemed to be looking 
at it, no doubt there was the reason. I feel angry at myself for 
having hitherto taken so little pains with my personal appear- 
ance; now that I am seventeen (almost a woman, I tell myself 
importantly), it is time that I should take more pride in myself, 
and think something of the elegancies as well as the uses of the 
toilet. In a train of thought the succession of ideas is very rapid; 
ROW I am wondering, for the first time in my life, if I have any 


14 


MY HERO. 


pretensions to ^ 2 :ood looks. It is a subject that has never yet 
been mooted either by myself or my family. I dare say that in 
towns where girls are brought out early, constantly seeing and 
mixing with grown-up people, irrespective of their own belong- 
ings, the question of their attractions becomes important to 
them at a very early age; but for me, who have comparatively 
speaking run wild in the country all my life, who have never 
received attention or consideration from any one (the hero of 
jam tart and toffee memories alone excepted), it is a matter of 
such perfect indifference that I don’t think any one has ever 
troubled his head about it. 

1 always wear the rejected garments of one of my sisters, the 
fit whereof is little regarded: so that they are taken in consid- 
erably, as I am slim and slight of figure. 

A sudden inspiration seizes me on this evening of my seven- 
teenth birthday. I light the candle and put it on the toilet-table 
near the glass — a small and hazy mirror, be it acknowledged. 
Hitherto it has been sufficient for my wants, to-night I am ex- 
ceedingly malcontent with its dim and garbled reflection. Per- 
iiaps more light would help me; but alas, where to procure it ? 
an end of mold candle is all the illumination permitted to the 
youngest female scion of the house of Keane. 

But my imaginative brain is not yet at the end of its resources. 
Suddenly I remember the cupboard on the stairs where Hepzi- 
bah the housemaid is wont to secrete miscellaneous articles, such 
as bits of soap, dusters, candle-ends, etc., etc. 

Taking off my shoes, I creep toward the door, which, spite 
of all my care, creaks horribly as I open it; and then, like a 
conspirator or housebreaker, I look furtively up and down the 
passage. All is dark and silent. On tip-toe I creep past Fanny's 
and Julia’s room toward the stairs, unfasten the button of the 
door, trembling as guiltily as though I had designs on the family 
plate, and i^^i a moment more am gi'oping in the cupboard, which 
an unsavory and tallowy odor pervades. I possess myself of 
something that, by the feel of it, must, I know, be a cancile-end, 
and prepare to make good my retreat. Out I come, and with a 
stifled shriek fall into the arms of a man who is creeping up the 
stairs. In my terror 1 drop my treasure, which rolls with suc- 
cessive thuds down every stair until it comes to the mat at the 
bottom. 

“ What the devil!” utters Jack’s hearty voice, in a suppressed 
tone; and reassured, I gasp out: 

“ Oh! Jack, how could you frighten me so?” 

“ I like that,” he retorts, in an audible whisper, “ when you 
ought to have been in bed an hour or more, you naughty -little 
puss! What have you been up to ?” 

“ It was so hot, I couldn’t go to bed,” say I, feeling it is an 
equivocation, if not a downright story. 

But wimt the dickens were you doing in the cupboard ?” 
inquires Jack, severely. 

“ I wanted a piece more candle, and you’ve made me drop it,’’ 
I add, dolorously. 


MY HERO. 


15 


Well, well, ril get you another, if you must lia.ve it,” says 
my big brother, good-humoredly. 

But we must find that, or Hepzibah will tell mamma of me, 
Jack,” I whisper. 

“ All right, Cis, I'll look for it,” he replies, creeping dawn- 
stairs, shoeless as I am. “ I can’t find it,” he mutters, as I stand 
in anxious expectation on the stairs while he gropes about. 
“ Co?tfound it! I’ve put my foot upon it!” is the next intelli- 
gence; and up he comes, with a mangled mass of wax in his 
fingers, at which I am almost ready to cry with vexation. 

At this moment a bedroom door opens in the passage, and ni}’- 
father’s voice calls out irately: 

“ Who on earth is making all that row out there ?” 

“ Oh! Jack, don't say I am here!” I w^hisper, in an agonized 
sotto voce. 

“ It’s me, sir,” growls Jack. “ I dropped my candle.” 

“ WeU, I suppose you needn’t stand palavering about it on the 
stairs, if you have,” retorts my father. “ Who’s that with you ?” 

I squeeze my brother’s arm imploringly, 

“ It’s Fred,” he says, aloud. 

“ Then don’t let me hear any more of either of you,” returns 
my father, crossly, shutting the door. 

“ There, miss,” utters Jack, angrily, “ you’ve made me tell a 
lie; and i^ there’s one thing I hate more than another, it’s lying. 
Now go tombed directly.” 

I hug him round the neck, and retreat to my room, but not to 
bed. No, not to bed, but to pat, and smooth, and squeeze my 
bruised candle-end into shape, and stuff it into an old broken 
china candlestick, by which time my original piece of mold is 
drawing near its end. Then I sit down in front of my six square 
inches of mirror, and proceed calmly to consider what claims I 
have to personal beauty. 

This is the inventory I make out; A small white face, gar- 
nished with an abundance of weaving, refractory chestnut locks; 
eyes of undoubted size but dubious color— for they have been 
called green, yellow, gray, brown by turns — (a competent 
authority has since declared them hazel); a mouth that, though 
not diminutive, is decidedly the best part of me, seeing it is 
filled with small regular teeth ; and — and I would rather not say 
anything about my nose, because I don’t think any distinctive 
name has been affixed to that particular style of proboscis, 
although it is certainly not uncommon. 

I rise from my survey disappointed. A lingering hope had 
lurked in my breast that I should be rewarded for my pains by 
the conviction that I am beautiful; but such, alas! is not the 
case. 

“ You are a poor little doll-faced thing!” I ejaculate with ire 
to ray reflection; “ and I am sure Mr. Carruthers would not care 
to look at you tMuce.” 

Twelve booms sonorously from the cathedral clock, and, hor- 
rified at the lateness of the hour, I divest me quickly of my at- 
tire, and jump into my doll’s bed, as Jack irreverently calls my 
pink and white couch, 


16 


MY HERO. 


I do not lie awake all night thinking of my Greek hero, as I 
have rather proposed to myself doing, but fall fast asleep, and 
sleep the sound, dreamless sleep of childhood, until Hepzibah 
calls me in the morning. 

“ Get up, miss, do!” exclaims that irrascible hand-maid; “ how 
you can sleep with the sun a-pourin’ in like a hoven, and the 
birds a-makin’ up that clatteraction, I don’t know.” 

“ All right. What’s the time?” I say. 

“ Time ? — time you was dressed and down-stairs a-feedin' your 
chickings,” retorts Hepzibah. 

‘'Well, why didn’t you call me before?” 

“ Call you before!” screams Hepzibah, who has a disagreeable 
way of repeating one’s words. * ‘ Why, I’ve bin in twicet. The 
prayer-bell ’ll be ringin’ in a minnut.” 

Thus admonished, I leap from my couch, perform my toilet 
with vigorous haste, and manage to be down in the dining- 
room just as my father opens the book. The boys are in at- 
tendance, also the servants; my sisters, always late, don’t affect 
family prayers. Jack has not gone, as I declined to accompany 
him on the previous evening, but means to start the moment 
after breakfast. 

Time lags heavily with me to-day, in spite of all I can do... 
Puss and her family fed, Nero and Wagtail ditto, I go and see -• 
Jack off, who forbearingly utters no reproach at rhy desertion ; 
then away I trot with Harry (it is his holidays), to see the young 
rabbits and visit my pig; also to hunt for eggs in all manner of - 
inconvenient places, where my perverse hens will insist on lay- 
ing. Then I fling my hat on the polished floor in the keeping- 
room, and sit me down on a low stool to shell a mountain rtf’ 
peas into a yellow basin. This done, the Irish cook blarneys me 
into stripping stalks off currants for jam, and I acquiesce, being 
extremely amenable to compliment and coaxing. I wash my 
hands, try a little water color painting, and at last — at last the 
bell sounds, and we sit down to two o’clock dinner, I am too 
nervous to eat very much — my eyes fix themselves every mo- 
ment on the clock, which I keep thinking must have stopped, ^ 

Jubilant I am inwardly, though somewhat guilty at heart, 
and I keep thinking how surprised they would be if they all knew 
I had an appointment with a gTand, handsome individual. 

“ Doris!” says my sister Julia, in the middle of dinner, I 
think I shall go with you to the woods this afternoon.” 

I feel as if a bucket of cold water had been suddenly poured 
upon me. I grow crimson, then white, tears force themselves^ 
into my foolish eyes, and I begin hastily to swallow scalding 
milk pudding. 

" Do you hear?” she says again. 

“ Yes,” I make answer, thinking of an air from “ Sonnam- 
bula’' I learned on the piano entitled, “ All is lost now.” 

“Well, you’re not very gracious,” remarks my sister. ‘ I 
should have thought you’d be delighted to get any one to go 
with you.” 

“ I’m-- I’m not sure Pm going,” stammer I, feelingthat I must 


MY HERO. 


17 


do something, anything to prevent so awful a catastrophe as my 
sister accompanying me. 

“ Then I shall go by myself,” she retorts loftily. 

Dinner i» happily over. I rush away to my room, bolting the 
door after me, and I fling myself down by my bed, and cry as if 
my heart would break Had ever such a terrible calamity fallen 
upon mortal being since the world began as this ’i 

If she should go, if he should meet her, and talk to her, it will 
be the death of me, 1 think. And Julia is pretty, v/ith a red 
and white complexion, and wears a blue muslin dress and a be- 
witching hat with a wreath of daisies. He might tell her of his 
meeting with me, and she would come home and denounce me. 

Tears fall from my eyes like April rains. Presently I rise and 
look at myself in the glass. There I see a white face, swollen 
and distorted eyes, red and closed up, and I say to myself; 

“ I can’t go now, even if she changes her mind.” 

The half hour after three chimes from the clock on the stairs, 
and a moment afterward the gate opens with a click. I rush to 
the window. 

Julia has kept her word— there she goes, with blue dress, hat 
and marguerites, silk sunshade, Irresistible, I think miserably. 
I watch her with straining eyes— ^she crosses the road, gets over 
the stile, very awkwardly, I think, into the corn-field, and saun- 
ters along in the broiling sun. I am almost wicked enough to 
wish her the fate of Martha Carson; dreadful unsisterly feelings 
are gaining ground in my wicked heart, when suddenly — can I 
believe my eyes ? She turns and retraces her steps. 

She can’t stand the heat after all. Oh, jubilate! I fly to the 
washing-stand, douse my disfigured face with cold water, tear 
off my frock, substitute a clean brown-holland ( I daren’t put 
on my Sunday muslin, for fear of exciting suspicion), twist up 
my hair somehow with a blue ribbon through the midst, seize 
my silk umbrella from its covering, and with my secohd-bes*; 
hat and blue ribbons tossed on anyhow, I dash out through th<^ 
back garden and stables at racing speed, and am in the corn - 
field. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE STORMS OF APRIL. 

“ Where love is great the littlest doubts are fear — 

Where little fears grow great, great loves grow there.” 

I HAVE forgotten that my cheeks are white, eyes red and 
swollen, and that I am looking “ a figure,” or, rather, I have not 
forgotten it, but I do not care. See him I must, were I ten 
times less presentable. It is not my beauty certainly that has 
taken his fancy, so what matter if I look a shade uglier or 
prettier ? Whether he cares to see me is no subject for my con- 
sideration now, but it is the one great necessity of my life I feel 
to see him. So I career on across the shadeless corn-fields, 
as though it were a 'winter’s day, instead of ninety-six in the 
sliadc, Even when I have climbed the stile, I do not pause. 


18 


MY HERO. 


though the perspiration stands in great beads on my face, and 
I have not a dry thread on me, as Hepzibah elegantly ex- 
presses it. 

Swiftly I make for the hollow-trunked oak, a horror seizing 
me lest he should already have come and gone. I arrive at the 
tree, and peep curiously in the hiding-place. No book yet, so 
with a sense of intense relief I fling myself down under the ben- 
eficent shade of the monarch of the w’oods, and hope devoutly 
my Greek hero will not make his appearance until I have time 
to grow somewhat cooler. 

My wish is granted. Five o’clock chimes faintly on my ear 
from the distant cathedral; I am cool, and Mr. Carruthers has 
not made his appearance. I wait very patiently, absorbed in my 
thoughts, now and then arranging a fold in my dress, and im- 
proving the elegance of my pose, for painful thoughts have oc- 
curred to me with regard to the attitude in which he found me 
slumbering the day before. At last I begin to get a little weary, 
a little impatient, but do not like to move, for fear of disturbing 
the effect I have been at some pains to arrange. Time comes 
when I can bear it no longer, and springing to my feet, I walk 
further into the woods, and peer anxiously through each green 
arcade for my tardy hero. 

“ ‘ He cometh not,’ she said.” 

I am in a poetic and Tennysonian mood to-day — for, ignorant 
little country-girl though I am, I have a Tennyson, and a well- 
worn one, too. 

Almost pettishly I come back to my tree, flinging myself down 
under its branches, and bethinking me of my poet’s talking oak, I 
repeat to myself the verse that seems most appropriate: 

“ For oft I talked with him apart, 

And told him of my choice. 

Until he plagiarized a heart 
And answered with a voice.” 

•' I wish you would do that, you tiresome, stupid old oak!” I 
say irately; but there is not even the faintest rustle in answer to 
my irreverent address. 

A tempting cluster of dark red strawberries nestles almost 
within my reach, but I will not even take the trouble to stretch 
my hand for them. I look at my fingers, which are white and 
clean to-day, and am almost angry at the trouble I have taken 
with them, since it is all for nothing. 

Six o’clock strikes; I am working myself into a frenzy of pain 
and disappointment. “ He will not come now,” I mutter to my- 
self, yet straining my eyes anxiously in the direction whence I 
expect hinu Then I drag the soft moss up furiously by the roots, 
and fling it far away. I do not even, spare my dear wdld- 
flowers, but beat at them savagely with the end of my umbrella. 
Half past six ring the distant chimes, and, rising slowly, with a 
sob choking in my throat, I prepare to go home. But first I take 
one long desperate last look — in vain! Slowly, with a heart full 
of bitterness, I retrace my steps to the broad green shade em- 
bosoming the steely water pool, where yesterday I saw Jtim, I 


MY HERO. 


10 


can bear it no longer, and throw myself down on the grass, cry- 
ing and sobbing. Oh! I was so miserable, so miserable! I could 
have flung myself into the big dark pond, and there they might 
have found me on the morrow, dead, with white face upturned, 
my hair tangled in green weed. 

This came of being seventeen, of seeing and speaking for the 
first time to a handsome man, and falling straightway in love 
with him, like the little idiot I was. “ Oh! how he would laugh 
if he could only see me now!” I say, trying to shame myself out 
of my folly; but it is no use; and wailing, “ Oh! if he would 
only, only come and let me see him once more!” I dig my nails 
into the green moss and fern in passionate misery. Long-drawn 
sighs and sobs rend my poor heaving chest, tears rain from my 
eyes as if the flood-gates were let loose; and as I am in the very 
midst of my paroxysm, a voice close beside me says tenderly; 

“ Doris!” 

Smitten with sudden terror, I look up to see William Car- 
ruthers, and, ah! fatal day, he sees me, with my swollen eyes 
and quivering throat, looking, I know, the most hideous object 
his eyes ever beheld. Worse than all, a horrible idea seizes me 
that he knows what I have been weeping and gnashing my teeth 
about. It’s no use, I can’t stop all of a sudden. I don’t often 
indulge in a fit of crying, but when I do it’s a very serious mat- 
ter. So for a minute or two my chest goes on heaving, my 
mouth sobbing, and my eyes raining, until he says; 

“For God’s sake, child, don’t cry so!” 

“ It’s — it’s — n — nothing.” I try to gulp out; but he throws 
himself down beside me, and possesses himself of one of my 
hands. Before I know what he is doing, he is kissing and 
smoothing it in his; and I am so utterly prostrate and over- 
whelmed with shame, that I let him do as he pleases, unresist- 
ing. 

“ Did you think I was not coming?” he says tenderly; and I 
snatch my hand away and crimson indignantly, because he has 
discovered the cause of my anguish. I avert my face, but he 
does not seem to mind; and takes my reluctant hand again, say- 
ing, “I have been in a fever all the afternoon, thinking you 
would be waiting for me; but my brother had invited some men 
over from Colton, and I could not get away.” 

I forgot my anger now he has told me that he wanted to come; 
nevertheless I try to get up a little acting, which may or may 
not have the effect of deceiving him. 

.< It’s — it’s so hot,” I falter, and I walked very fast. “ I— I 
think there’s going to be a thunderstorm. It always upsets me.” 

“ Does it?” he says with an amused smile, that shows me the 
utter futility of my attempt to throw dust in his eyes. “ I hope 
it won’t come on before we get to Lord Elsleigh’s.” 

I am silent, and blush very much. 

“ What a dear little hand!” he says presently, smoothing and 
kissing it again. 

I feel sure it must smell very earthy and ferny after my de- 
structive fit. But it is a sense of propriety, not the former 
thought, that makes me say; 


20 


MY HERO. 


“Oh! please don’t — you mustn’t!” 

“ Why ?” he asks, looking at me with surprise; and ir leave it 
there, feeling as if the impropriety is mine in making any re- 
mark at all upon the subject. 

“ Is Lady Flora Lyon very beautiful?” I ask presently. Lady 
Flora is Lord Elsleigh’s daughter. 

“She’s rather handsome,” Mr. Carruthers replies. 

“ And — and is your brother going to maiTy her?” I say shyly. 

“ If he is he has not confided his intention to me,” Mr. Car- 
ruthers answers. “ I don’t suppose Vivian will marry just yet 
— he’s too good a judge.” 

I look askance at my Greek hero, not quite comprehending 
the last speech, but am afraid to ask for an explanation. 

There is a slight pause in the conversation. Mr. Carruthers 
looks away over my head, his eyes filled with a melancholy ex- 
pression. Furtively I glanced at him, thinking how beautiful 
those same eyes are, half-raised, with their wonderful trans- 
parent blue like a sapphire, and the long lashes fringing them. 
Not for the world would I disturb his reverie, but wait patiently 
until his soul shall return to consciousness of mundane and ter- 
restrial matters. Presently it does return, and he says, turn- 
ing his gaze on me; 

“ I was fancying myself far away in a haunted forest of the 
olden times, with a little wood-nymph, visible only to my mortal 
eyes.” 

I wonder if he means me for the wood-nymph, and if so how 
he can be reconciled to the idea of the said nymph having red, 
swollen eyelids and tear-streaked cheeks. I am also reminded 
of the book of fairy tales, and say: 

“ Did you bring my book ?” 

“ By Jove! I forgot all about it,” cries Mr. Carruthers; and 
somehow I feel more pleased and fiattered by the omission than 
if he had brought me twenty books. 

‘ Never mind,” I hasten to say, “ it does not matter the least.” 

“ But you sliall have it,” he rejoins; “ I will send them round 
to-night.” 

“ Oh, no, please don’t!” I cry, getting very red; and turning, 
he looks at me with a little smile that seems to say, “ I under- 
stand — you don’t want the people at home to know of our meet- 
ings here.” 

“ Why ?” he asks provokingly; then, seeing my tears ready to 
spring forth again, adds quickly. “ I will put it in our old friend 
the hollow oak for you.” 

“ Thank you,” I murmur; and, feeling very anxious to know 
when I may have the supreme happiness of seeing him again, 
I venture a shy. “ When?” 

“ Well, I don’t think I can tell you that,” he answers with a 
smile that makes me feel a very young child indeed; “ but you 
come very often, don’t you? Well, you must look every time 
until you find it.” 

Something grates on me in that last speech. I don’t know 
what or why, but I feel very small, and look away to the pool 


Jl/y HERO. 


21 


with a vexed, disappointed feeling. Probably he reads my face 
— it is a dreadfully tell-tale one, for he says softly: 

“ You may be sure I shall take the first opportunity of seeing 
my little wood-nymph again.” 

Smiles dimple over my face once more! I am quite happy. 
He looks at his watch. Oh I what enemy of mankind invented 
those horrid reminders ? 

“ I must be off!” he cries, jumping up. “ I shall be late as it 
is; the carriage is ordered at half past seven, and it is five min- 
utes past now.” 

I rise too, and he, coming close to me, stoops his face to mine. 
I tremble exceedingly, and start away with my cheeks all aflame. 

“ Don’t!” I gasp. 

He draws himself bolt upright in an instant, and says in a 
tone so different from what he used before: 

“Certainly not, if it is unpleasant to you.” 

So terrified am I by the coldness of his manner, that I feel in- 
clined to fall at his feet and beseech him to do me the honor of 
saluting me as much as he feels disposed; but while I am yet 
irresolute, he smiles, and raising my hand to his lips, kisses it 
respectfully. 

“ Good-bye, Miss Doris.” 

I lift my eyes imploringly to his, and murmur indistinctly: 

“You are not angry with me ?” 

“ Angiy, my dear child!” he says, in a caressing voice; “as- 
suredly not. I was only mistaken— I thought you liked me a 
little; if you had, you would not have shrunk away from my 
kiss, but rather offered your lips first to mine. It is the wom- 
an’s place, not the man’s, to show what is in her heart. Such 
proof ennobles her, but it degrades him. Good-bye,” and with a 
kind pressure of my hand, Mr. Carruthers leaves me. 

I remain standing in the same spot for I know not how long, 
not ev^en turning to watch his receding figure. A cold grasp 
seems to have been laid on my heart; a vague feeling of shame 
and disappointment gnaws at me. I have offended him — he will 
never see me any more perhaps. It was unmaidenly, unwom- 
anly, to refuse his caress; and yet, and yet — oh! I cannot quite 
bring my mind to think that I should have been right in accept- 
ing it. I begin to wonder if there is something very wrong and 
bad in my own mind to make me so shocked at what he evi- 
dently considers a simple thing. I wind up by thinking that the 
proper course would have been to allow him to do as he pleased. 
(Poor little ignorant babe that I was in those days! No match 
for a man of the world, who knew and calculated the effect of 
every word on a poor simple mind like mine.) 1 think with hor- 
ror that I have cut myself off from his notice forever, that I have 
disappointed him, and that now he will never want to see me 
any more. 

In this frame of mind, my steps turn themselves lingeringly 
homeward I shall be severely reprimanded by everybody for 
my lateness — it is striking eight at this very moment; but the 
lesser trouble is swallowed up in the greater, and I don’t care, 


22 


MY HERO. 


“Though father and mother and all should go mad,” 
as saith the words of an old Scotch song that Fred is fond of in- 
dulging in. 

Entering the dining-room of the paternal mansion, I find it 
empty — tea has been cleared away. I am proceeding to the 
kitchen to ask for something to eat, when I am met by Fred. 

“I say,” he whispers, “they’re all in such a wax with you. 
Those beasts {anglice my sisters) have been egging the governor 
and the mum on, and they’ve forbidden the servants to give you 
anything to eat. But I coaxed old Moll Flanagan (the boys’ 
name for our Hibernian chef), and I’ve taken you up a jolly tea 
into your bedroom and hidden it in the shoe cupboard.” 

I don’t know whether it was my sisters’ unkindness, Fred’s 
goodness, or the exciting events of the day, but I put my head 
on his shoulder and begin to cry for the third time that day. I 
suppose seventeen is the April of one’s life, and requires a good 
many storms to bring forth the May fiowers. 

“ Poor old darling!” says Fred, tenderly stroking my hair. 
“ I should like to horsewhip those nasty mischief-making 
wretches,” he adds, vindictively. “ I hate all the lot of them.” 

“ Never mind, Fred,” I sob. “ It’s not a— about them I’m 
cr — crying. I — I don’t feel well — I shall go to bed and — and 
you can tell them I — I’m not coming down any m — more to- 
night.” 

“ Poor little dear!” says sympathetic Fred, and snatching me 
up in his strong arms he carries me to my room, where, after 
carefully bolting the door, he hastens to produce the banquet 
from the cupboard. 


CHAPTER VI. 

MR. CARRUTHERS OF SOUTHCOTE. 

“ Look here upon this picture, and on this, 

The counterfeit presentment of two brothers.” 

Half an hour has elapsed. Fred is gone again, after dispos- 
ing of the remains of the feast which, to his disappointment, I 
have not done much justice to. I am sitting by the open win- 
dow, feeling very miserable, when there comes an authoritative 
rap at the door, and my mother enters. I know I am going to 
be scolded, but feel quite callous, though I assume a respectful 
and attentive demeanor. It is, I know, most distasteful to my 
poor mother to lecture any one, but she has been “ egged on to 
it,” as Fred says. 

“Doris,” she commences, advancing into the room, “ what is 
the meaning of your extraordinary behavior ?” 

Silent I sit, and she resumes with increased severity. 

“ Do you imagine that you, almost the youngest person in the 
house, are to be allowed to set all rules at defiance— to absent 
yourself whenever you ghoose ?” 

I can find nothing to rejDly. 

“ Your papa is extremely displeased with you, and so am I,” 
mamma goes on, evidently puzzled to contiriue. 


MY HERO, 23 

I rise, and throwing my arms round her neck, burst into the 
i'ourth flood of tears. 

I beseech the gentle reader not to believe that I am always 
given to the melting mood. I may venture to say no tears have 
fallen from my eyes for at least twelve months previous to the 
present time. 

My mother, astonished and rather frightened at so unwonted 
an ebullition, forgets her vicarious wrath, and soothes me, saying: 

“There, there, my dear. Come, don’t be so foolish— now— 
pray, Doris. Dry your eyes, cliild, and you shall come down- 
stairs and have some tea.” 

I am on the point of mentioning that I have had my tea, but 
remember in time not to betray lYed. 

“ I dare say you’re faint for want of something, and you’ve 
upset yourself going out in the broiling sun. I won’t have you 
do it again. Now, come down with me, and I’ll make your peace 
with papa.” 

“Oh! no, please, mamma,” I entreat. “ I do not want afiy 
tea, and do — do let me go to bed — I am so tired. And indeed — 
indeed I did not mean to displease you and papa, but — but — it 
was so pleasant in the woods ” 

So any one would have thought if they had seen how my af- 
ternoon was spent. 

“Well, well, we won’t say any more about it,” replies my 
mother, “ only don’t let it happen again. Go to bed if you like. 
Good-night, my dear.” 

And kissing me, she retires. Still I remain at the window, 
and presently Hepzibah enters with a tray of provisions, and a 
face sour enough to turn the cream she carries. Dowm she 
plumps it on the small table. 

“Thank you, Hepzibah,” I venture meekly. “I don’t want 
any tea.” 

“ Yom’ ma says you are to, she responds with asperity. 

“ I cannot. I am not hungry.” 

“ That comes from stayin’ out when you ought to be in at your 
meals,” snaps the vinegrous damsel. 

“ Take it away again, please,” I say. 

She flounces about, muttering something that sounds like 
“people’s tempers,” and then departs without the tray. 

I put it outside myself, lock my door, and retire to bed. When 
I awake in the morning I am oppressed with a sense that some 
misfortune has befallen me; but it takes me some time to call to 
mind what my woes are. I dress myself, feeling cross and im- 
table, a frame of mind which I must say is not habitual to me. 

During breakfast I keep silence, and as it is a wet morning, be- 
take myself when it is finished into the drawing-room with a 
book. "My sisters are there, of course, but we do not exchange 
any conversation. 

Presently Julia looks up, saying, imperatively: 

“ Doris, go and fetch me the ink.” 

Generally speaking, with me to hear is to obey, but to-day I 
am out of temper, and feel irritated against my sisters. I make 


04 ]\TY HERO. 

no reply, though my heart ])eats rather fast as I resolve on dar- 
ing to brave tliem. 

“ Do you hear ?' says Julia again. 

“ Yes,” I answer, getting rather red. 

“ Then perhaps you will get it.” 

“No, I shall not,” I retort, defiantly; and this time any one 
might hear the loud beats of my heart against my side. 

My three sisters look up aghast at my rebellion. 

“ Upon my word!” says Fanny. 

“You disagreeable little wretch!” cries Julia. 

“ I shall tell papa of you,” adds Anna. 

My eyes are flashing, my cheeks scarlet, as I cry: 

“ Why should I wait upon any of you? You don’t order ea^h 
other about, and why should you me ?” (I am speaking too fast 
to concern myself with elegance of phraseology.) “ It’s a, shame. 
I have to wear your old clothes, and fetch and carry for you, 
and then you go and make mischief, and try to set papa and 
mamma against me.” 

“ Oh, you little fury!” cries Fanny. 

“ It’s quite true,” I retort, “ and you know it is. I won’t bear 
it any longer!” and finding my position begin to get untenable. 
I make good my retreat from the room, followed by a shower of 
words from my sisters. 

The rain has ceased. I feel the house unbearable, and resolve 
to go and see old Gideon Hay. For many years he was a faitli- 
ful servant of the family, but now, superannuated, lives in a 
little cottage some half a mile distant. We have a great mutual 
affection, the old man and I; my visits to his cottage are of the 
most frequent. 

Bearing with me a basket of new-laid eggs as an offering, I 
betake myself to Exhibition Cottage, as Mr. Hay has named his 
residence, in consequence of a profound impression produced on 
his mind by a visit to the exhibition of 1851. Nimbly I trip 
along the road, though my heart is still heavy with the con- 
sciousness that 1 have made myself unmitigatedly and unneces- 
sarily disagreeable. I wish now I had fetched the ink for Julia, 
and am half tempted to go back and make my peace. I cer- 
tainly will express my contrition on my return, and in the course 
of my walk I added several paving-stones to a place that shall 
be nameless. 

Mr. Hay is in his garden picking up slugs, which does not pre- 
vent me from offering my hand, though I am not sorry when he 
respectfully declines it. 

“ You see, miss, my dear” (so he always combines his affec- 
tion and respect for me, good old servant that he is), “ the slugs 
do come out in bodies after a shower o’ rain, an’ there’s no 
keepin’ of ’em under, unless I comes myself, an’ attends to ’em 
— though, if I’d a-knowed I should see your pretty face here this 
morning, I’d sent ’em all to Jockey Baker before you should ha’ 
caught me this figure, an’ my hands all of a muck.” 

,, “I’m sure you need not mind me. Hay,” I sky; “but it 
can’t be good for your rheumatism to be stooping about in the 
damp.” 


MY HERO. 


“Well, it is back-breaking work, missy, I do confess; but. 
bless you! I shouldn’t have a cabbage nor a brocklow, nor noth- 
ing else, for them varmint, if I didn’t have a day’s hunt now 
and then.” 

“I'll help you,” I say; though I don’t think any one ever 
loathed the insect creation (are slugs insects, by the way?) more 
than I. But I have a stout pair of dogskin gloves, and plucking 
a cabbage-leaf, valiantly begin a crusade after the nasty slimy 
things. 

“ Now, miss, my dear, don’t you go for to sile your pretty 
fingers with such muck,” remonstrates Hay; but I continue 
vigorously my disgusting employment — all the more resolutely 
that I feel some penance necessary after my ill-humor. 

Between us we make a great raid upon our molluscous foes. 
I am getting very hot and red with stooping, when I hear a 
horse’s hoof outside the gate. Hay and I look up simultaneously, 
to see a handsome man on a fine bay horse watching us with an 
amused smile from the road. He reins in his horse, and Hay 
goes respectfully forward. 

“ I say. Hay,” he commences, “ can you tell me what’s become 
of Jim Hatton, who used to live down in Baliks’ cottages. One 
of my men is taken bad, and I thought if he hadn’t a job he 
might do for us.” 

“ I haven’t set eyes on Jim not this three months, sir,” Hay 
replies. “ I’m sure I don’t know what’s become of him; but I 
could go round an’ ask, if you pleased, sir,” 

“Oh! no, thank you, I won’t give you the trouble,” rejoins 
the stranger; and I look up and go forward, with some degree 
of shyness, for, by a strange coincidence, I have seen Jim Hat- 
ton this very morning in our own yard, and heard him ask papa 
for a job. 

“Jim Hatton is at home again,” I say, getting very red, as is 
my wont; “and — and I know he will be very glad of work.” 

“ Thank you so much,” says the stranger, who has taken his 
hat off at my approach: and though I do not admire fair men as 
a rule, I am bound to admit that this one is very good-looking. 
“ Where can I find him, do you think?” 

“ If you wouldn’t mine calling at home, they would be sure 
to know,” I answer, about to retire. 

“ Will you tell me where home is?” he asks, with the cheeriest 
of smiles. 

“Hailing Farm — half a mile further up the road.” 

“Thanks. I know Hailing Farm very well,” he says; and, 
raising his hat to me, nodding to Hay, he rides off.” 

“ Now, that’s a real gentleman, that is,” ejaculates Hay, with 
enthusiasm, as soon as the stranger is out of hearing. 

“ Who is he ?” I inquire. 

“ Lor’, miss, my dear, don’t you know ? Why, that’s Mr. Car- 
ruthers.” 

I stoop hastily after an imaginary slug, for I don’t care to ex- 
pose my countenance at this moment to Hay's inspection. But 
I see a great field opening before me. I shall be able to talk of 
my hero, and Hay will give me information about the family. 


26 


jfr HEm. 


“Oh! that’s Mr. Carrutliers, is it?” I say, recovering myself, 
and looking up. 

“Yes, missy; and he’s the kindest-hearted, libcralest gentle- 
man in these parts. All his people dotes on him, they do.” 

I feel jealous, for his brother’s sake, and say slightingly: 

“ People can afford to be liberal when they are rich. I sup- 
pose he is very rich?” 

“ Y"es; he be that; but little your innocent heart knows of the 
' ways o’ the world, if you think them as is richest is liberalest. 
I’ve knowed of lords and markisses as was that rich they 
couldn’t count their wealth, as ’ud do anything mean to save a 
sixpence.” 

“ How old is Mr. Carrutliers?” I ask. 

“Well, let me calc’late,” says Hay, assisting memory by plant- 
ing his digits in his sparse gray hair. “ He come of age two 
years afore the exhibition — well, that makes him thirty-three. 
An’ a handsome young chap he was, to be sure, goin’ about 
shakin’ hands with every one so free — not a grain o’ pride about 
him — and seein’ as every one had their fill of all the good things. 
A proud woman his poor mother was that day.” 

These reminiscences provoke me. I don’t want to hear any- 
thing in favor of the el^er Mr. Carruthers. I ask if he has any 
brothers ? 

“Yes; one,’^ says Hay, “ but he’s a poor chap compared to the 
squire. A stuck-up, dissatisfied sort o’ fine gentleman, as doesn’t 
care two peas for no one ’cept himself.” 

I am about to utter a furious denegation of this last state- 
ment, when fortunately I remember myself. But, fearful of 
hearing anything more to his detraction, I say hastily: 

“ I must run away, for it wiU be getting near our dinner- 
time.’’ 

“W^ell, miss, my dear, I mustn’t keep you,” says Hay, 
“though it’s loath I am to part with your pretty face’’ (I think 
bethinks every one pretty who is young). “We’ve got a fine 
crop of slugs between us, and I’m sure I thank ye hearty for the 
lielp you’ve give me.” 

“ Good-bye, Hay,” shaking liim by the hand (I may as well 
now, for we’re all sluggy together); but I go away feeling less 
respect and affection for that faithful old retainer of the Keane 
family than is my general wont. 

I hasten back to be in time for dinner, expecting to incur 
much wrath from my sisters after my rebellion of the morning; 
but, lo! they come out in a body to meet me, seeming quite to 
have fprgotten the little unpleasantness between us. Soon I 
discover the cause. Mr. Carruthers has been here after Jim 
Hatton, has mentioned his meeting with me, and my sisters are 
wild to know where I saw him, what he said, what I said, etc. 
I think they would all have gone slug-hunting for a week with 
poor old Hay for such a chance as I have had, and which, of 
course, is completely thrown away upon me. 

“ I wonder if he would bow to you if you met him?” says 
Fanny. “ Perhaps he might stop and s^^ak, and then you 
might introduce him to us,” 


MY, HERO. 


27 


At dinner Julia and Fanny propose taking me into Colton to 
see about buying me a new dress. I know what it means — 
namely, that we are to perambulate the High Street in pursu- 
ance of Mr. Carruthers of Southcote. 


CHAPTER VII. 

GALL IN THE HONEY. 

“ 1 am weary of days and hours, 

Blown buds of barren flowers, 

Desires and dreams and powers, 

And everything but sleep. 

We are not sure of sorrow. 

And joy was never sure; 

To-day will die to-morrow; 

Time stoops to no man’s lure.” 

I MAKE no opposition; little thought have I of going to the 
woods to look for the fairy tales or my hero. It is a moral cer- 
tainty to me that he will not be there ; and the green arcades, 
the ferny swards, wild flowers, and steel-blue lakelet have lost 
their own intrinsic charm for me. 

I am content to be promenaded through Colton, though I have 
resolved in my own mind that if I meet Mr. Carruthers twenty 
times I will do nothing so forward as to look at him expectant 
of a salutation. “ Likely,” I say to myself, “ that he will no- 
tice a little cotton-gowned slug picker, or even remember for a 
moment that it was I who gave him the needed information.” 
How little we know what is to happen to us! 

Twice we have wmlked down and once up the High Street, 
when at a little distance on the opposite side I see Wilfred Car- 
ruthers sauntering slowly toward us. My heart leaps into my 
mouth, my knees literally knock together, and an awful 
fear seizes me lest my sisters shall notice my confusion. Will 
he look at me ?— will he bow to me ? Shall I turn my head the 
other way? Now he is there in front of me I feel inclined to 
risk everything only to be noticed by him. He sauntei*s toward 
us. For an instant his look seems to sweep over me. I crimson 
to the eyes; but he walks on without the slightest sign, and I 
cannot even be sure he has seen me. 

“Who is that?” Fanny asks of Julia. “What a handsome 
man!” 

And Julia answers: 

“ I don’t know. One of the officers, I suppose.’^ 

They are in front of me. A sudden wild feeling comes across 
me that I must win one look from him. Dare I? I glanced 
round me with a terrified look; my heart beats so thick and fast 
I am almost choked, and then while my sisters, absorbed in con- 
versation, continue their way, I turn and dart down the street. 
It is agony to me to venture this rash pursuit: every feeling of 
modesty quails within me; but I feel as if my life depends on 
one glance from him. I only mean just to pass before him— one 
glance is all I ask. 

At this moment a low phaeton with a pair of splendid ponies 


28 


MY HERO. 


comes rattling up the street; they pull up short in front of Wil- 
fred; I see him hasten forward and stretch an eager hand to the 
lady who is driving, and I look up at her. She is young, she is 
beautiful, and she is dressed in the perfection of elegance. My 
eager eyes take everything in at a glance; the exquisite ampli- 
tude of lace and muslin, the soft white feathers curling over 
her golden plaits, the pearl-colored gloves, aricl thick gold brace- 
lets. She smiles, and his face is radiant — he seems to devour 
her with his eyes. A numbness creeps over her heart; hastily I 
turn and look for a moment in a shop window. My eyes are full 
of tears, I feel that my face is telling plainly of my anguish, and 
when I dare to look up my sisters are coming toward me. 

‘ ‘ Why don’t you keep with us ?” Fanny says, crossly. 

And then they are taken up in contemplating the group oppo- 
site. 

“How lovely she looks to-day! I wonder who he is? He 
seems to be very much in love with her. What an exquisite 
blue her dress is! How well that pink rose looks in her hat!” 

All my sisters’ remarks are jumbled together in my ears as 
they stand beside me, feigning to look into the shop, but glanc- 
ing furtively at the lady in the pony-carriage. 

As we turn to go away I cast one desperate look at Wilfred 
Carruthers — my eyes meet his, but there is no recognition in his 
glance, and I walk on with a feeling of shame and misery gnaw- 
ing at my poor foolish heart. As if he would look at me, a poor, 
little insignificant, ill-clothed rustic, when he moves among 
beautiful, elegant women such as she. 

“ Oh! you miserable little idiot!” I say to myself, trying to 
lash up a rage that will drown my pain. “You poor, benighted, 
ignorant simpleton, to think a man like that could be anything 
to you, or you to him!” 

Mechanically I go shopping with my sisters — they forget that 
they came into Colton to buy a dress for me, and I do not care 
to remind them. If I might choose a garb for the rest of my 
days, it would be sackcloth and ashes — the loveliest fabrics of 
gauze and silk, dyed to the fairest hues of azure and rose, would 
not inspire envy or desire in me to-day. 

They finish at last as the great clock booms out six, and we 
betake ourselves in the direction of the Hand and Flowers, 
where our equipage is always put up. The old piebald pony is 
harnessed to the little basket-carriage, Fanny takes the reins, 
Julia jumps up beside her, and I get in behind. We turn out of 
the yard just as a great clatter of horses’ hoofs makes itself 
heard. Involuntarily I look up and see a team going by; as I 
raise my eyes to the holder of the ribbons, he takes off his hat 
profoundly. It is Mr. Carruthers. 

My sisters looked around quite flushed and excited. 

“Was that to you ? Did you see him ? Did you bow ?” they 
cry, in a breath. 

I remember, with shame, that I was too much taken by sur- 
prise to acknowledge the salutation. 

“ How stupid you are!” Fanny says, indignantly, and I feel a 


MY HERO. 29 

weary kind of conviction that I am a poor, silly, miserable creat- 
ure, fit for nothing in the world. 

Forlorn, I sit on my little seat as we jog-trot past the old-fash- 
ioned gable-roofed houses, and then out into the lanes toward 
home. All my sisters say strikes plainly on my ear, though I 
make no effort to listen. 

Mr. Carruthers — the officers — the dresses at Loveridge’s — the 
dean’s wife. Then comes something that I do not listen to. 

“ They say she is a tremendous flirt,” begins Fanny. 

“ Who?” asks Julia. 

“ Why, Lady Cecil.” 

“Oh I I should think she is, by the way she M^as going on 
with that man. I wonder how Sir Marmaduke likes it ?” 

“ I don’t suppose he minds. They say all he cares for is a 
good dinner.” 

A sense of relief comes over me. She is married then, this 
beautiful creature, so of course she and Mr. Carruthers can’t 
possibly be in love with each other. I am still at that age of 
Ignorance and simplicity when one believes that the fact of a 
woman’s having a husband secures her from all but the friendly 
interest of the rest of mankind. 

I should not feel so miserable now but for the thought that he 
has seen without seeming to recognize me. Was he ashamed of 
me ? His brother had bowed to me, even though Lord Elsleigli 
was sitting by his side! No, I tell myself, miserably — it is my 
folly of the day before that has disgusted him — that alone is the 
reason of his refraining from any notice of me. 

We reach home, sit down to tea, stroll out in the lanes after- 
ward, and get through the evening somehow. I pace in solitude 
up and down the long alley of currant-bushes in the kitchen- 
garden, feeling desperately unhappy. I seem to have lived one 
day of bliss (I magnify that first meeting with Wilfred Car- 
ruthers into unutterable bliss, forgetful of the confusion, the 
stained finders and gingham umbrella, that went to mar its per- 
fect beautitude), and now I feel as if my life was gone — has 
slipped from me forever, and the rest of my days are to be 
barren, blank, and void. 

So it is with children; they are supremely exultant or su- 
premely miserable — life is to them all couleur de rose, or one vast 
black unfathomable abyss. It is said childhood is the happiest 
time; perhaps because those who say so are past it, and have 
forgotten so much of it. The past was happier, we say; the 
future will be happier, we hope, only this present time is so full 
of pains and cares. 

I work myself to such a j)itch of misery that if I only knew 
how to compass it, should like to go and fling myself at the 
feet of Wilfred Carruthers, and beseech him to give me one kind 
look. I imagine fantastic pictures in my poor deluded brain— 
of how I would like to trail myself at his feet and die, hearing 
him implore me with tardy repentance to live for his sake. But 
It would be too late. I should insist upon then and there breath- 
ing my last without even looking one glance of reproach on him 
for his cruelty— could I but play Elaine to his Launcelot! Alas, 


80 


MY HERO. 


in these prosaic days, no one dies for love — and the Keanes are 
an exceptionally robust family. Real suffering comes surely 
enough in after life, but I doubt if the bitter anguish of our 
childish hearts over some imaginary grief is ever exceeded. I 
go to bed, and rise on the morrow, still heavy at heart, and all 
day long I move about, not with blithe, cheery voice, trolling 
noisy ditties up and down the house, and flying in and out the 
rooms, as is my wont — but sad, heavy, listless. Fortunately, oc- 
cupation is provided for me. I am set to prepare baskets of fruit 
for preserving, and then Anna wants a frill hemmed for the 
muslin she is to wear at a small dance to-night. 

In the evening, papa and mamma are taking a stroll; the boys 
are in Colton; and as the twilight creeps on, I steal into our bay- 
windowed drawing-room, and sit down to the piano. I sing all 
the plaintive littie ditties I can call to mind, and set pathetic 
verses to sad, tender music, until the knot rises in my throat, 
tears swell in my voice, and I am fain to close the piano. Ris- 
ing, I lean my arms on the ledge of the open window, looking up 
to the dark blue heaven, and feeling that intense yearning after 
happiness that every human heart must experience sometimes. 
I have not yet come to the knowledge that, whatever appear- 
ance seems to say, suffering and sorrow come alike to every heir 
of our first parents’ curse. I say to myself. Lady Cecil must be 
as happy as the princess in a fairy tale, with her beauty, her 
wealth, her jewels, and such friends as Wilfred Carruthers; and 
I — oh! I don’t think any one was ever more miserable or un- 



»y than I am. 


Three days pass without my venturing near the Southcote 
Woods. Cui hono, as Harry, proud of his Latin, says grandiosely 
on all occasions when it can be effectively introduced. I find 
no pleasure now in the solitude that was wont to be so sweet to 
me; my thoughts, dreams, fairy tales are empty of satisfaction 
for me now that I have begun my own life. I can no lohger 
suffer for the pains of my puppets, nor rejoice in their joys. I 
am the heroine of an all-absorbing romance; my tears and 
laughter are all selfish now. 

The fourth day is Sunday. We have tea an hour earlier, and 
afterward I slip away, feeling that I must visit the once dear 
haunt again. The brief happy dream is over, of course. Never 
more shall I sit with my Greek hero under the green shelter of 
the big trees, nor see his dreamy gaze bent tenderly on my face. 
“ That is past, but I can shut my eyes and think of him,” I say 
desperately to myself; and that poor comfort I must and will 
have. So, with lingering feet, I tread the hard-beaten track 
through the corn-fields, stopping now and again to pluck poppies 
and corn-flowers and daisies, mixing them with wheat ears. 


MY HERO. 


iJi 


CHAPTER VIII. 

OPHELIA’S WREATH. 

** I was (unhandsome wrangler as I am) 

Arraigning his unkindness with my soul, 

But now I find I had suborn’d the witness, 

And he’s indicted falsely.” 

The evening is delicious, full of sunshine, of airs balmy, from 
heaven; and as, strolling up into the woods, I see the long lines 
of red sunlight flickering warm through leaf-clustered branches, 
and falling on patches of green fern and velvet moss, I am filled 
with a glad sense of beauty. 

The world is still lovely, though the hearts of the poor dwell- 
ers therein are troubled and sad. I do not stop by my steol-blue 
lake, nor the hollow oak, but wander a long way further, climb- 
ing to a great open spot where one can see the country for miles 
round. The trees cease here on this side, and a great turfy 
sward descends steeply several hundred feet into a valley 
through which the narrowed river flows scarce wider than a 
trout stream. Beyond are fields and fields of corn, with here and 
there meadow lands, and a patch of red fallow fields. I can see 
two or three houses surrounded by trees belonging to neighbor- 
ing grandees, and bounding the red horizon, a range of distant 
hills. Under a clump of beeches I sit down, pulling off my 
straw hat, and letting the red reflex of the sun play warmly on 
my face. Sad am I, and sentimentally inclined as I look at my 
lap full of flowers, and bethink me of a picture of Ophelia ex- 
hibited in Colton last spring. I will be Ophelia, though Hamlet, 
Prince of Denmark, was fair and slightly mad, with neither of 
which attributes can I invest Mr. Wilfred Carruthers. But I 
will be Ophelia without a Hamlet, and my deft fingers swiftly 
weave a wreath of red poppies and blue corn-flowers mixed 
with dasies and wheat ears, and long hanks of bright grass. 
Then child-like I pull the pins from my hair, letting it tumble 
heavy and curly over my shoulders. When the wreath is 
twined among my locks, I feel the want of a looking-glass to 
see if I am really like the-picture; but soon forgetting even that 
want, I wander off into one of my habitual trains of thought. 
Suddenly voices quite close at hand arouse me, and with a kind 
of terror I look round to see four or five gentlemen coming to- 
ward me, smoking and talking. In my consternation I forget 
the head-gear, with which I have idiotically adorned myself, 
and catching up my hat by the string, prepare for flight, more 
shy than ever, now I recognize Mr. Carruthers and his brother. 
The other gentlemen are strangers. For a moment I stand like 
some wild animal at bay. I cannot escape without passing 
them, but before I have time to think Mr. Carruthers comes up 
to me, putting out his hand. 

“ How do you do. Miss Keane ? I am so glad you make use of 
these woods. What a lovely evening!” 

And I stammer “ Yes,” in unutterable confusion, feeling the 
most rustic, shy, ill-bred simpleton in the world. The other 


•62 MY HERO. 

men pass on— Wilfred, without one glance, the strangers with a 
stare and smile. 

All at once I remember my Ophelian wreath, and put up my 
hands to tear the badge of folly from my tangled locks. Never 
was fool more ashamed of cap and bells than I of my flower 
crown. With ruthless fingers I tear at it, heedless of pulling out 
great meshes of hair, until Mr. Carruthers cries in a tone as if 
the hair were his, not mine: 

“ Oh! don’t — pray don’t! You must not tear at it like that — 
let me do it for you if you will have it off, but it looks so 
pretty.” 

But I am beside myself with shame, and also with pain at 
Wilfred’s indifference. I feel that my eyes are full of tears, and 
I am indignant with his brother for noticing me at all. He 
picks up the disgraced garland, and disentangles gently from it 
a cluster of shining threads, while I stand looking helplessly on. 

“ How could you be so cruel!” he says, almost reproachfully. 

And I mutter: 

“ It doesn’t matter.” 

I want to run away without being rude, and he, seeing my 
anxiety to be gone, says: 

“ I am so sorry we disturbed you. I can’t bear the thought of 
frightening you away. Do stop here, we are going.” 

At this moment I see the others returning. 

“ I must go,” I say, and hurry off to lose myself in a turn 
of the wood. A moment after I hear swift footsteps, but do not 
look round. 

“ Miss Doris,” says a voice close at my ear, and my heart gives 
a great bound, for it is his voice. 

“ You dropped this.” 

And Wilfred Carruthers shows me a black rosette from one of 
my shoes. 

“ Oh! thank you,” I respond mechanically. 

“Will you come to the hollow oak at five to-morrow?” he 
whispers, with a tender look from his beautiful eyes, and before 
I can answer he is gone again, and I fly on, for 1 hear the sound 
of laughing voices behind me. 

“Will I go to the hollow oak?” Will I not do any mortal 
thing that the sovereign lord of my heart deigns to command ? 
And I run on, my feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground, in 
such a heaven of ecstasy are my senses rapt. 

He is not angry — I have not lost him forever — oh! supremely 
blissful thought, and straightway the world that was a vale of 
tears and tribulation an hour ago, becomes a paradise of pure 
felicity. 

I begin to love my neighbor as myself — my heart is filled with 
genuine charity and affection, even to cross Hepzibah, who is 
more unbearable than usual this evening. ' I should like to em- 
brace everybody all round, but the fulfillment of my aspirations 
is confined to Fred, the other members of my family not seem- 
ing appreciative of my affectionate mood. One thought alone 
troubles my repose. What if it should be wet to-morrow — and 
papa has been tapping the glass, and ominously pronouncing it 


3fF HERO. 


to be going down. I ask, trying to seem indifferent, if the 
barometer is ever known to be wrong; but papa is a firm be- 
liever, and will not admit its fallibility. 

In spite of the glass, the morrow dawns fair and hot. At five 
o’clock I am hastening through the wood to the hollow oak. No 
waiting this time; already in the distance I see the tall form of 
Wilfred Carruthers leaning against its trunk, and as I approach, 
he comes forward to meet me. I am in great trepidation about 
the mode of my reception, but his manner is very kind and very 
cold; he scarcely more than touches my hand. 

“ Here is your book at last,” he says. “ Have you been often 
to look for it?” 

“.No,” I answer, truthfully, “ not once.” 

“ Do you not want it, then?” he asks, with a slight elevation 
of the brows. 

“ Oh! yes,” I answer hastily; “ but ” 

“ But what ?” 

“ I felt sure you would not bring it.” 

“ Why ? — since I promised?” he asks. 

“ Be — because I thought I had displeased you,” I stammer. 

“ My dear child,” says my hero, with a look almost of pity, as 
he gazes down at me from the altitude of his superior height and 
wisdom, “ I see you do not understand me yet. Why should I 
be angry ? Suppose ” — and he bends toward me while I look 
eagerly up to catch every note of the harmonious voice — “ sup- 
pose, for instance, that in these very woods I came suddenly 
across what seemed to me a little fair, fresh, innocent wild-flower 
of a new and different sort from what I ever met before; I stoop 
to take it to my heart, and then I find it is not the rare flower I 
fancied, but one just like a host of others that I have seen and 
plucked a hundred times. Do you think I should be angry with 
the flower ? or, rather, should I not leave it and go on my way, 
disappointed at my own faulty discernment ?” 

My eyes are bent now on a tuft of fern, which they see but 
dimly for the mist that comes across them. I have read the 
cruel allegory, and am wounded to the quick by it. 

“ You see, my child,” he says, very kindly, not in the least as 
if he meant to pain me, “ I am not angry with you; it would be 
most unfair.” 

That is another stab. I am half wrathful, and say : 

“ I am only a village rustic; you cannot expect me to be like 
your elegant, aristocratic ladies, like Lady Cecil,” I cry, for I 
have some spirit, and not tact enough to conceal the bitterness 
rankling within me. 


1 


34 


MY HERO, 


CHAPTER IX. 


HEARTSTRINGS 


“ Oh! love were little worth, were he not blind, 

And deaf to caviling thoughts unkind, 

Dumb to reproach, conscious of but one pain — 

The anguish lest he waste himself in vain.” 

He makes no answer, and I say: 

“ I saw you in Coltx)n with her, and you did not even look at 
me.” 

Indeed!” with cold politeness. Pray accept my best apoh 
ogies.” 

I am terrified by his manner, and look up quickly, but he is 
gazing away into the distance with a slight curl on his lip. 
There is silence between us for several minutes; then, eager to 
mollify him, I say, sorely against the gi'ain; 

“ Lady Celia is very beautiful.” 

“ You think so?” he responds, still coldly polite. 

“How could she have married that old Sir Marmaduke?”! 
begin again after another pause. 

“ It would not be difficult to find a great many reasons,” 
answers Mr. Carruthers. 

“ He is old enough to be her father,” I venture. 

“ Her grandfather even,” says my companion. 

“ Then don’t you think that dreadful ?” I ask, eagerly looking 
up in his face. 

“C’es^ selon,'" he replies with a shrug. “ It is not dreadful if 
Lady Cecil feels no repugnance to a man more than three times 
her age, or if she can conquer her repugnance sufficiently to take 
advantage of the wealth, position and luxury a marriage with 
him offers her.” 

I look at him incredulously; I don’t believe those to be the real 
sentiments of my hero. He sees the look, and with a smile 
throws himself down beside me. 

“ How could anything make her happy if she does not love 
him ?” 1 asked, indignantly. 

“ You are very young. Miss Doris,” says Mr. Carruthers, with 
a smile in his eyes and lips, “ and you know nothing at all about 
the world in which we 1‘ ’ sographically, perhaps, 



from what they taught 


You know that it is 


round, like an orange, that it is divided into so many parts, and 
the parts into so many countries, that there are so many seas, so 
many mountains, so many rivers, so many capital towns; but of 
the beings, red, white, and black who inhabit it, their wants and 
necessities, their passions and desires, thifc feelings that govern 
them, you are as yet in a state of profound and blissful igno- 
rance. Happy yoii if you could always remain so! You see, 
though all mankind is made much after the same pattern, their 
wants and natures vary considerably — for instance, the savage 
wants his bow and arrow, his tattooed squaw to wait on him, the 
scalps of his enemies, and an occasional dish of boiled missionary, 
to make him happy; the student is placed in a seventh heaven 


MY HERO, 


35 


by a shelf full of musty old books; a monk asks no more than his 
beads, the little finger bone of a saint, and his scourge. Lady 
Cecil thinks it the height of bliss to be covered with diamonds, 
to drive the finest horses, to be the bosom friend of duchesses; 
and you— your wants are so simple that you would be content to 
live in a tumble-down cottage, so only it had roses and jasmine 
training over it, and administer curds and whey to the hero of 
your worship.” 

I looked in his face with a smile and a blush. I like to hear 
him talk — all he says sounds so supremely clever in my attentive 
ears. 

“You still believe in love and roses and strawberries and 
cream, don’t you ?” he asks me in a voice half caressing, half 
mocking. “Ah! you won’t when you are as old as I am,” he 
adds, with something like a sigh. 

I begin to feel more at home with him, and take courage to 
say: 

“ You seem to know what would make every one else happy. 
Won’t you tell me what you care most about ?” 

He looks up at me with profound sadness in his dark blue eyes. 

“ Ah! child, you ask me a question very hard to answer. 
What I care about? I scarcely know. There are few things 
now that can awaken even a common interest in me, much less 
the enthusiasm that is necessary to make one care about any- 
thing.” 

“ But you are not very old?” I venture. 

“ I am older than many a man of fifty, little Doris,” says Wil- 
fred Carruthers. “ Look at me. Do I look like a man who has 
any of the feelings or impulses of youth left in him? You know 
your Bible very well, I dare say — of course you do. Well, I am 
like King Solomon; not in his riches or power or wisdom. Men 
entendu, but I have given my heart to search out happiness, and 
have found only vanity and vexation of spirit. I have tried his 
distractions, in a modified form, according to the manners of the 
period; that is to say, I have mixed with the great, the rich, the 
beautiful; I have dabbled in art, kept race-horses, given myself 
up to the fascinations of the dancing-girls and the exhilarating 
influence of nectar fit for Olympian gods; and behold me here at 
two and thirty, sated, blase, world-worn, almost incapable of an 
emotion except that of being intensely bored, and I suppose one 
can hardly call that an emotion. I envy you. Miss Doris, with 
your freshness of feeling, your capacity for enjoying and suf- 
fering.” 

“ Suffering!” I echo. 

“ Yes; there is a luxury even in that. Do you know I envied 
you the other day as I watched you in the supreme abandon of 
your fancied sorrow; it gave me the idea of such intense 
vitality.” 

I turn away, vexed at his recalling the folly I am so bitterly 
ashamed of, but he goes on ruthlessly: 

It made me think what an intense capability for enjoyment 
you must possess, too, and what a trifle it would take to send 
you into the seventh heaven.” 


36 


3IY HERO. 


“ You must think me very silly,” I say, almost ready to cry 
with vexation, for he makes me feel such a very little child — a 
poor irrational being with no sense or discrimination. 

“Silly? Child,” he answers, with a tender inflection of his 
voice, “ the people who are capable of being soonest made happy 
are the wisest, to my way of thinking.” 

“ Little things please little minds,” I retort, and am then sud- 
denly filledi with horror at my own vulgarity. 

“ I think,” says my hero presently, looking far beyond me into 
a spirit-world of his own, doMm somewhere through the 
green vistas — “1 think the only thing that could give me 
happiness now would be the intense love of a fresh, young 
heart, that would take me for its master, its life — its all in all. 
One t hat I could play on as the strings of a fine instrument, that 
would give forth pathos, tenderness, grief, or rapture, at my 
touch — eyes in whose deep wells I read the soul speaking clear 
and true, and lips never tired of breathing ‘ I love you.’ ” 

A great trembling eagerness seizes me as he speaks, to be this 
heart, these eyes, these lips to him — to take him for my master, 
my all in all; then I shrink back within myself, abashed at my 
own temerity. I, a little, simple, ignorant girl aspiring to be 
the ideal of such a being as Wilfred CarruthersI There is a long 
silence, and then he turns and looks at me — my eyes meet his, 
and sink away with sudden confusion. He stretches a hand out 
for mme, and I give it, trembling exceedingly, my heart flutter- 
ing with the old unconquerable terror. 

He lets my hand fall. 

“ Poor little frightened dove!” he says, in the low, mocking 
voice that I dread. “ It cannot bear the coarseness of mortal 
touch after its ethereal dreams of fairy lovers.” 

Crimson, confused, ashamed, I sit with face averted, I may 
have made up my mind a thousand times to all I will do and 
sufiTer, so as not to hurt and vex him; but when it comes to the 
point my old shyness and fear hang like lead upon me, and I 
can be no different. 

“ I can’t help it!” I say, desperately; “ it’s no use.” 

“Alas! for the fine instrument that I have imagined,” he 
says, half bitter, half jesting, “ that jangles discord when I 
would fain draw sweet music from it!” 

1 am beginning to hate his allegorical mode of speech, that I 
thought so musical and exquisite at first— it always conveys a 
stab for me. 

“ Then why do you speak to me ? why do you have anything 
to do with me ?” I cry, with sudden access of passion, “ if every- 
thing I say and do disgusts and disappoints you?” 

“ You neither disgust nor disappoint me, mv child,” he re- 
plies, caressingly, “ You are such a dear, sweet little thing that 
I want you to be dearer and sweeter still.” 

1 look up at these soft words with wondering delight. 

“ If you were not something different — something better to 
me than most of the world, do you think I should care to take 
the trouble of coming out here to see you, and leaving all kinds 
of gay parties for your sake ?” 


My hero. 37 

A great sense of happiness overshadows me. I can find no 
words. 

“Some day you will know me better than to tremble at my 
touch.” continues Wilfred Carruthers. “ There’s a verse in your 
Bible that says, ‘ Perfect love casteth out fear,' isn't there?” 

“ Yes,” I say, nodding my head. 

“ I must go now,” rising and stretching out his hands to raise 
me. Then for a moment we stand together, he still holding me 
fast, and gazing intently into my face. I dare not look up — I 
tremble and grow red, experiencing a sense of positive torture; 
then at last, like the unhappy bird fascinated by a snake, my 
eyes turn suddenly to his. He is laughing. 

'* Good-bye, belle ingenue T he says, releasing me, and I stand 
fe€ ling foolish and mortified, wdiile he turns and takes his way 
u p through the woods toward the park. 

And he is gone, without saying a word of seeing me again, 
and though he piques and frightens me, and makes me feel 
foolish and ashamed nearly all the time I am with him, I know 
that I am utterly, miserably, desperately dependent on his pres- 
ence for all the happiness I am ever to know again in this world. 
I cannot understand him — does he like me a little, or is he only 
laughing at me ? That last thought holds the very gall of bitter- 
ness. 


CHAPTER X. 
jack’s castle. 

“ All sounds were in harmony blended, 

Voices of children at play, the crowing of cocks in the farmyard: 

Whirr of wings in the drowsy air, and the cooing of pigeons. 

All were subdued and low as the murmurs of love, and the great sun 

Looked with the eye of love through the golden vapors around him.” 

I FIND Jack at home, to my great delight. Having had busi- 
ness in Colton, he has come in for an hour on the way home, 

” I say, Cissy,” he begins, ‘-these things are bothering me to 
have them over for the day next week when I get my corn in, 
so I’ve been obliged to give in.” 

" Why, Jack, you ought only to feel too flattered, I’m sure,’' 
says Fanny. 

“ Oh! I am,” responds Jack ironically. 

‘ Now, Jack, couldn’t you ask a few men in the evening, and 
we might get up a little dance,” pleads Anna. 

A few of the officers from Colton,” suggests Jack, witli 
heavy raillery 

“Perhaps Mr, Carruthers ’ud drive ’em over on his drag,” 
guffaws Harry. 

“ No, but Jack,’ interposes Julia, “ you might ask two or 
three men,’ 

“ Well, where I'm to get them from, unless you’d like a few 
of the reapers in, I don’t know,” replies Jack. 

“ Nonsense,’' cries Fanny. “ You’ve got two or three men in 
the neighborhood, and thougli they’re not much, they’re better 
than no one.’’ 


MV HERO. 


rj8 


“Oil! no doubt, if I tell them my elegant sisters are coming, 
and will condescend to notice them, they’ll fly and leave their 
harvest and everything else.” 

“ Have in Billy Simmons, Jack,” cries Harry. “ Fan thinks 
he's spoony on her; I heard her tell Jii so, because he was at our 
church the Sunday before last.” 

“ You rude boy!” utters Fanny, indignantly. “ Hold your 
tongue directly.” 

“ Well, Cissy, are you game to come this time?” asks Jack, 
turning to me. 

I push his leg under the table imploringly, afraid lest he 
should let out about the last invitation. 

“Oh! yes. Jack, I should like it above all things,” I say. 

“ But she can’t,” exclaims Anna, “ there won’t be room in the 
pony carriage.” 

“Oh, I’ll settle that,” answers Jack. “I have to go into 
Colton on Wednesday, and I’ll come in here and take her along 
with me, and you can come over on Thursday. Fred and Harry 
can walk, and I’ll manage to send them andCis back in my dog- 
cart,” 

So it is finally arranged; and though Wilfred Carruthers 
should appoint to meet me on that very day, go I must; for I 
would not offend my dear good brother for the world. 

But nothing happens to deter me even from the wish to go, 
for neither the next day nor the next is there any sign of my 
hero, though I brave the scorching afternoon sun to watch for 
him in the woods. Wednesday comes bright and hot. The 
glass is at set fair now, and Jack comes to fetch me. I prevail 
on him to stay until quite late, for I dearly love a moonlight 
drive; and as we are wishing every one at home good-bye, the 
lialf-hour after nine strikes. I spring up into the high dog-cart 
one side as Jack mounts the other, for his black mare is impa- 
tient to be gone, and gives the man all his work to hold her. 

“ Good-bye, every one,” and with a dart forward the mare is 
off within a very narrow shave of taking one of the gate-posts 
with her. Off we go at a spanking trot through the warm 
scented air, along the hard white road^. 

Tlie moon is up, and throws great gaunt shadows across our 
way, giving the mare every opportunity of shying if she feels 
disposed; but I am at that happy age when nerves don’t trouble 
me, and if I were the most timid creature in the world I don’t 
think I could know fear with my big brother beside me. 

I give myself up to the enjoyment of the hour, hugging my- 
self into Jack’s pocket, as he lovingly bids me do, while he puts 
out a strong arm now and then to draw me yet closer. 

Only one thing interferes with my perfect enjoyment — the 
thought that our drive will soon be over, at the brisk pace we 
are traveling; but the quick motion is delightful, and I am not 
going to spoil my pleasure by anticipatory regrets. How we 
scud along! the white mile-stones seem to have been moved 
nearer together since last I passed them. Eight miles, seven, 
six, five, four, alas! A heavy dew is falling, and a strong, de- 
licious scent rises from the stubble fields where the corn has just 


MY HERO. 


39 


been cut. The cows are enjoying their peaceful slumbers in the 
big green meadows; and so are the villagers, apparently, as we 
pass through the hamlets, where not one glimmer is to be seen 
through the latticed windows. 

We come to a piece of water running across the road called 
the Splash, and the mare stops a moment to drink. The moon 
shines on the water and reflects us. I remember every feature 
of that delicious drive to this very day. On we go again, past 
the hedge-rows full of honeysuckle, past the gaunt white wind- 
mills that put me in mind of Don Quixote de la Mancha; and 
then we come to the dear, tumble-down white house, covereil 
with roses, red, white, and yellow, that is Jack’s Castle. The 
lattice windows glitter in the moonlight through their frames of 
dark-leaved, white-starred clematis; the dogs. Nettle, Dandy 
and Growler, rush out with a joyful chorus of w^elcome; old 
Billy, the groom, hobbles up; Mrs. Bateson, the housekeeper, ap- 
I)ears at the door — and here we are at home. We go into the 
parlor, which has a nice farm-housy smell with a faint soupcon 
of tobacco smoke, and Jack and I sit down to the refection that 
has been prepared for us. There is cold pie and cucumber, fresh 
lettuces and a great dish of strawberries, with a jug of cream 
you may almost make the spoon stand upright in; and we set to, 
undisturbed by any thought of consequent nightmare or troubled 
slumbers. Then Jack lights his pipe, while I sit on his knee, 
and we have the most delicious “ coze” together on this my first 
night under his roof-tree. It is nearly twelve o’clock when he 
performs the office of major-domo, and lights me to my apart- 
ment, three times as big as my own, and tells me, with a kiss 
and a laugh, not to lose myself in the great dimity -curtained 
couch. 

Next morning I awake early, and hear the birds’ vociferous 
chant through the open window, and see the slanting sun-rays 
pouring across the strips of carpet. Up I jump, and put my 
head out. Oh! how I wdsh our house was like this! Close up 
comes a great hedge, twenty feet high, of acacia and lilac, la- 
burnum and hawthorn, growing out of a forest of evergreen; 
and a pretty garden lies below% with weeping ashes and wild 
cherry-trees, divided by a haha from the meadow where the 
sleek cattle are grazing. 

Chanticleer is jubilant, Mesdames Chanticleer loudly an- 
nounce that we may expect new-laid eggs for breakfast. I can 
hear old Billy s s-shing as he cleans the harness, and Mrs. Bate- 
son shrilly apostrophizing Molly the girl. Presently a step 
crunches the gravel, and Jack, issuing from the door, looks up 
at my window. 

“Ohl you are awake then. Cis, Come down, there’s a pet, 
and I’ll take you round the yard before breakfast.” 

Thus urged, I waste no time, and before very long am hang 
ing on his arm, inspecting eagerly the new acquisitions since 
my last visit Then we go in well appetized for our morning 
meal: and I have the delicious satisfaction of making tea for 
Jack the first time in my life. 

“Oh! you dear thing!” I cry, enthusiastically, for I have put 


40 


MY HERO, 


away Wilfred Carruthers for the time being, and am giving 
my sole attention to my brother. “ I wish 1 lived with you 
always.” , ,, 

do I, my pet,” says Jack, heartily; “and so you shall 
some day, when I see how things are likely to work.” 

“ But you are getting on, dear,” I say, with sedate interest. 

“ Like a house on fire so far; but it doesn’t do to launch out 
all at once, you know, Cis; and farming’s a desperate uncertain 
game.” 

“ Oh! I know you’ll get on. Jack,” I exclaim, confidently’^ : 
“ and then you’ll be getting married, and I shall hate your 
wife so!” (the last sentence with real gusto). 

“ Ha! ha!” laughs Jack— “ never fear, Cis. There’s no chance 
of your little nose being put out of joint yet awhile. Why, 
you’ll be married and settled yourself long before that, I hope, 
and I promise not to hate my brother-in-law, if he’s a good 
fellow.” 

Why does a ridiculous thought come across me that Jack and 
Wilfred Carruthers would never get on? as if that grand indi- 
vidual would ever in his wildest moments think of taking to 
wife a little insignificant nobody like me! 

“ Jack,” I commence presently, in a deprecating tone, “ would 
you mind very much if I were to put your things straight this 
morning ?” 

“No, dear,” he responds; “ I shall be much obliged, as long as 
you won’t poke things away where I can’t find them, like that 
stupid old Bateson. And I tell you what, Cis, if you’ll set your 
handy little fingers to work at my fishing-tackle, as you used, 
you’ll be doing me a real service.” 

‘ ‘ All right. Jack; I’ll begin at once.” And he lights his pipe and 
goes off, leaving me with the dogs, for they won’t even follow 
their master when I’m there, such affectionate remembrance 
have they of my good offices when they resided at Hailing 
Farm. 

First of all, I have a good look round, and take a general sur- 
vey of the room. The furniture is very old and dark; it has been 
handsome, and the sideboard and chairs are ornamented with 
carved brass. Hunting sketches adorn the wall, but these are 
modern and oak-framed. A small mahogany and brass-framed 
glass surmounts the chimney-piece, and above that are trophies 
of the chase — viz., a fox’s head and two brushes crossed. From 
nails in the wall hang whips and foils, a rusty old sword, etc., 
etc. ; and on the big brass-bound cabinet are cases of stuffed 
birds, weasels, one or two polished horse-shoes, and a miscel- 
laneous collection of pipe-cases, old dog-skin gloves, back num- 
bers of Bell, Bailey, and such like periodicals, powder-flasks, 
cigar-boxes, fishing-tackle, shot-cases, with a multitude of other 
things such as are used for the requirements of country life. 

To disturb this confusion is like the commencement of clear- 


ing out the Augean stables — you 
than ever by meddling with them; 
exertions, my labors are crowned with success; and when, at 
half past twelve, I hear the approaching wheels of the pony- 


get things into a worse plight 
but at last, after superhuman 


MY HERO. 


41 


carriage, Jack's parlor is quite fit for the reception of my sisters 
in their most fastidious mood. 

“ Why, Cis,” cried Jack astonished, “ you have made a clear- 
ance! I know, though, I shall be cursing my fate and your 
tidiness when your back’s turned, and I don’t know where to 
lay my hand on anything.” 

“No, you won’t,” I reply triumphantly, exhibiting a list of 
where everything is stowed away. 

The girls go about exploring while I take a turn at the fishing- 
tackle, and ornament the dinner-table with flowers; aUd at two 
o’clock we all sit down, a regular family party, with the boys, to 
the sumptuous banquet that Mrs. Bateson, with the tardy Molly, 
has prepared for us. Dessert is spread under the trees in the 
garden, and thither we betake ourselves, while Jack goes to look 
after his reapers. Then M'e have tea, and wander out into the 
stubble-fields, where we sit under the shelter of a clump of big 
beeches near the hedge. I am sleepy after my exertions, and 
presently my heavy lids close, and I am away in a sweet dream- 
ful slumber, lulled by the unbroken murmur of my sister’s dis- 
course. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE SIBYL, 

“Oh! I know more than that. And then they said 
A cavalier from Court, handsome and tall 
And rich, should come one day to marry you. 

Was it not so?” 

When I awake, the first object that meets my ey% is the 
bronzed, cunning face of an old gypsy woman peering over the 
five- barred gate. 

“ Tell your lucky fortunes, my pretty ladies,” she begins in a 
wheedling voice; “ you’re born to good luck — the planet as see 
your births is a lucky one. Let the old gypsy cross your hands, 
and I’ll tell you who’s a-thinking of your bright eyes this mo- 
ment, and the letter his name begins with. There’s news a-com- 
in’ for one of you by the post as you little expects, and pleasant 
news you’ll find it. • One of you, I see by a somethin’ in the eye, 
’ull lead a roamin’ life, an’ won’t settle long to one part nor an- 
other. Come, my pretty ladies, give the old gypsy a bit of silver, 
an’ she’ll tell you of all the lucky fortunes as is in store for you. 

My sisters whispered eagerly together. 

“Oh! do let us. Fan,” says Ju. 

“Oh! no, not that horrid old woman.” 

“Oh! yes, I shall. I’ve got my purse.” 

“Jack ^vill be angry.” 

“ No, he won’t.” 

“ Very well — you first.” 

The bright old mole’s eyes peer fascinatingly through the bars 
as she sees her wheedling likely to be successful. In she comes. 
Ju extends her palm, and the silver piece wherewith to cross it. 

“ Ah!” says the gypsy with a cunning leer, “ I see something 


42 


MY HERO. 


here — there’s a dark gentleman ’ud be glad to hold your hand, 
my pretty miss, as I’m a-doin’ now.” 

“ I wonder if it’s Captain Fenton,” whispers Ju to Anna, with 
a delightful blush. 

“ A dark gentleman as looks very handsome in his red coat, 
and whose riggiment isn’t a hundred miles away from here,” 
goes on the old woman cunningly. 

And Ju turns again: 

“ Isn’t it wonderful ? How ever did she know? Of course it’s 
Captain Fenton.” 

“ And he’s a-thinkin’ of you this minute a-riding along on his 
fine chestnut horse, and a-wishing he may meet you in the 
lanes.” 

“ Is it a chestnut he rides?” whispers Fan. 

And Ju answers: 

“ I don’t know, but I dare say it is.” 

She evidently doesn’t want to be desillusionnee about the 
diviner’s powers. 

“ When shall I see him next?” she asks eagerly. 

“ There’ll be a ball in the town afore very long, and you’ll 
meet him there. I don’t say you won’t see him before, but then 
he’ll have somethin’ to say as you won’t, may be, be very sorry 
to hear, my pretty miss.” 

That’s the race ball,” whispers Ju, excitedly. 

“ Did you ever hear anything like it?” 

A great deal of prophesying goes on — the two others have 
their fortunes told, with more or less satisfaction to themselves. 

Anna is put down to a light gentleman with a wicked eye, and 
Fan’s lover, being not yet upon the scene, is to be met at a 
dance before long. There are one or two surprises, one or two 
journeys, a wedding, and some good news, divided between 
them — all mixed up with some oracular jargon about the 
planets, and I am taken with a childish desire to have my share 
of the fun. But, alack! my purse is empty; my sisters won’t 
lend me any money. They say it’s nonsense my fortune being 
told — there can’t be any news for me. I am ever so disappointed, 
but resign myself. 

“ Never mind, my pretty miss,” says the gypsy, .who seems a 
good-natured old thing. “ I’ll tell you your fortune for nothing, 
and you’ll think of the poor old gypsy when you see her next 
time. And a rare fine fortune it be, too,” she adds, scanning the 
lines attentively. “There’s a very grand gentleman as loves 
you,” and I blush scarlet, while my sisters look with ill-con- 
cealed contempt at me. “ A fine tall gentleman, with beautiful 
blue eyes, as ’ll make a great lady of you some day.” 

I am trembling in every limb, and the old woman looks 
acutely up at me. 

“I know all about it,” she says, nodding her bright eyes. “ I 
know — I know ” 

I begin to feel frightened lest she will divulge her knowledge 
in my sisters’ hearing, but am wild to hear more. 

“You’ll see him, too, afore long, and you’ll get a suiprise, 


MY HERO. 


4 :^ 


too. He’s a very handsome gentleman, with blue eyes and light 
hair.” 

“ Ohl no,” I utter involuntarily, and the crone pauses a mo- 
ment. 


"Ah! yes,” she says presently, with a keen glance, '‘there’s 
another fine gentleman, who’s tall and got blue eyes, but his 
hair's dark, and you’re a deal fonder of him than he is of you. 
Don’t you have nothing to do with him, my dear— he’ll bring you 
sorrow, but you look to the one as loves you.” 

I can’t bear it any longer. Of course I know it’s all nonsense, 
but I rise abruptly, and rush off with a flaming face to Jack, 
who is coming toward us across the stubble. 

Some days after this little incident, so perturbing to my guilty 
mind, I bethink me of paying a visit to our neighbor, Miss Carl- 
ton, who lives with her brother in a pretty little white house on 
the London road, and is an assiduous cultivator of roses and 
gossip. Not ill-natured gossip, hien entendu, but that pleasant 
little chit-chat which, carried on in a friendly spirit and spark 
ling with a dash of humor, is one of the keenest enjoyments that 
brightens humdrum country life. 

My sisters like her because she is hand-and-glove with all the 
neighboring "swells,” and can tell them about the grand doings 
of the upper ten; I like her because she does not despise my 
ignorance and childishness, but seems as glad always to see me 
as if I were the most entertaining guest in the world. Mr. Carl- 
ton is a scholar and a hypochondriac: his poor sister would have 
a hard time with him but for the natural buoyancy and bright- 
ness of her disposition. 

On this day we have had two or three thunder-showers, and I 
take advantage of an interval of fine weather to walk across to 
Whitehouse. Miss Carlton is in the garden, straw-hatted and 
gauntlet-gloved, tending her roses. As she sees me enter the 
garden gate, she leaves her flowers and comes briskly up. 

" How d’ye do, my dear ?— I am so glad to see you. I was just 
wishing some one would come in, for I’m in a talking humor, 
and haven’t seen a soul these two days. 

This is the cheery, pleasant way she always meets me. 

" I am very glad I came, then,” I answer. 

" Come and hold the basket for me while I cut off the dead 
roses,” says Miss Carlton; " and then we’ll go in and have a cup 
of tea.” 

We have been busily employed for some minutes, when the 
click of the gate opening makes us look up. 

" I declare it’s Wilfred Carruthers!” exclaims Miss Carlton. 
" What brings him here, I wonder?” And she goes forward to 
meet him, to my utter and intense relief, for I should expire if 
she were to see my face at this juncture. By the time she has 
shaken hands with him and returned, I am tolerably composed 
again, though very undecided as to how I ought to behave. He 
comes up as though I were the most utter stranger, taking off 
his hat formally as Miss Carlton introduces us. I am silent, but 
supremely happy, as I stand listening to their conversation, only 


44 MY HERO, 

bringing in a shy word now and tlien, when Miss Carlton kindly 
essays to draw me out. 

We are just going in doors to have some tea, when a sound of 
prancing hoofs makes us look toward the road. A moment, 
and Lad^y Cecil’s ponies draw up in front of the gate. I dart a 
swift look at Wilfred Carruthers — his face is utterly, blankly 
unconscious — he does not even go forward with Miss Carlton. 

The groom opens the gate, and in come the prancing ponies, 
with their beautiful mistress smiling and nodding behind them. 

“ How d’ye do, Miss Carlton? Will you be very angry with 
me for cutting up your gravel ? It really is a shame when it’s in 
such beautiful order.” 

And I turn to glance at the speaker, who looks more graceful 
and elegant than any one I have ever seen. To-day she is 
dressed all in soft yellow brown Japanese silk, with blue feathers 
in her hat, which become her wonderfully. A mortified sense 
of dowdiness comes over me as I think of the intense contrast 1 
must present in the fastidious eyes of Mr. Carruthers to this 
lovely woman, and I hang back, almost hoping to be forgotten. 
But Wilfred turns to me. 

“ This is an unexpected meeting,” he whispers in a kind voice. 
“ I little thought of seeing you here to-day.” 

“Nor Lady Cecil?” I say quickly; and then I could bite my 
foolish tongue out, for a haughty look comes into his eyes, and 
he turn away from me to speak to her. 


CHAPTER XII. 

LADY CECIL. 

“ And he who has not learned to know 
How false its sparkling baubles show, 

' How bitter are the drops of woe 

With which its brim may Overflow, 

He has not learned to live.” 

Deeply mortified, I stand where he has left me, unconscious 
that the dead roses are dropping from the basket I hold on to the 
wet grass. I feel of another wmrld from these two handsome, 
w^ell-bred, well-dressed peofile, smiling in each other’s eyes with 
happy familiarity — even homely Miss Carlton makes no link be- 
tw^een us. 

An intense desire to get away takes possession of me — if I can 
only reach the gate unperceived! 

“ No one will miss me,” I say to myself bitterly. 

Quickly I drop the basket and steal toward my goal; but Miss 
Carlton catches sight of me, and calls me by name— 

“ Doris, my dear, where are you going?” 

“I must get home,” I answ^er confusedly, “and I thought, 
as you were engaged, I wouldn’t disturb you to say good-bye.” 

“ I won’t hear of such a thing,” she cries cheerny. “ Come 
and let me introduce you to Lady Cecil!” 

And in spite of my protestation, for it is torture to me, she 
puts her hand on my unwilling arm and di*aw’s me forward. 
The words of introduction are spoken— her ladyship holds out a 


MY HERO. 


45 


dainty gray-gloved hand to me. and smiles very kindly. The 
bittern ass dies out of my heart in a moment, as it always does 
at a kind look or word. 

“ You were not thinking of going with that great black cloud 
threatening?” she says pleasantly. “Drops are beginning to 
fall already. Miss Carlton, you must give me shelter and the 
ponies too.” 

And taking Wilfred’s hand, she descends, and saunters toward 
the house, careless of the rain that is beginning to pour down in 
good earnest now. Miss Carlton gives the groom some direc- 
tions, and then we run in for shelter. 

Lady Cecil and Wilfred are standing by the wdndow as we 
enter. Seeing us, she hastily puts her finger on her lips, and lie, 
turning away, sits down to the piano. I take refuge in a corner 
to listen entrancedly to the soft Italian melodies he half sings, 
lialf hums; but Lady Cecil is laughing and talking very audibly 
to Miss Carlton, and does not seem to notice the music. I think 
it chafes him, for presently he turns sharply from the piano and 
gets up. Seeing my eyes fixed full upon him, he comes toward 
me, sitting down in front of me, with his back to the others. 

“Well, child,” he says, in a low, kind voice — “so you like 
music ?” 

“Oh! yes”— a poor little commonplace answer, but all my 
powers of expression are concentrated into it. 

A wild, foolish desire takes me suddenly to keep him there 
talking to me, in spite of Lady Cecil’s presence. Oh! what do 
women of the world say and do to keep men chained to their 
side, as I have heard and read of their doing scores of times ? 
But no words come into my confused brain. I can only sit gaz- 
ing at him with wistful, imploring eyes. 

“ You must learn not to show all you feel In your face, caris- 
sima,'’ breaks in his voice, in the cold, supercilious accents with 
which he loves to wound me. 

A. great overwhelming shame comes over me; my cheeks burn, 
until the tears force themselves into my eyes, and I look help- 
lessly away to avoid the gaze of my tormentor. 

“Worse and worse,” he whispers, impatiently. “For God’s 
sake, child, do command yourself a little, unless you want these 
people to guess that this is not our first meeting.” 

“ I don’t care what they guess,” I murmur, bitterly. “ I don’t 
see why you should be ashamed for any one to know we’ve met 
before.” 

“ It’s not becoming to you to look vixenish,” he answers coldly. 
“ Besides, if you reflect at all, you might know my anxiety was 
on your account. I’m not supposed ” (with a sneer) “ to be very 
good company for little innocent girls.” 

“ Doris,” interposes Miss Carlton’s voice at this juncture, “ Lady 
Cecil wants to hear you sing.” 

“Oh! indeed, indeed, you must excuse me,” I falter, m great 
trepidation. “ I can’t sing— at least, only just so very, very 
little.” 

“ Try, my dear,” urges Miss (Carlton. 


46 


MY HERO. 


“Yes, yes, you must indeed. I know by your voice you sing,” 
says Lady Cecil, with one of her winning smiles. 

It flashes across my mind for a moment that she wants to get 
me away from Wilfred, but a moment later I laugh myself to 
scorn for my vanity. 

Do — won’t you?” says Wilfred, persuasively. 

Perhaps he is sorry now for his unkindness to me, and wants 
to atone for it; but I am resentful, and won’t even lck)k at him. 
Miss Carlton darts me a little imperative nod; I do not like to 
refuse, but the ordeal is a terrible one. 

My poor little Angers tremble so that I can scarcely grasp the 
keys; the little symphony is a very lame affair, and I know how 
my voice will quiver when I attempt to begin. But I make a 
violent effort, and sing the simplest little old English ballad that 
I know, getting through it somehow. 

The two ladies give me profuse thanks and praise, to encour- 
age me, I suppose; but Wilfred’s low, earnest “ Brava!” is worth 
all the rest to me. My pulse thrills and quickens, as leaning 
over me, he says; 

“ Another, little Doris. I could go on listening to you all the 
afternoon. What a thousand pities you don’t sing Italian.” 

Again I sing, waxing more confident; and then again, until I 
no longer feel shy or frightened. Then tea comes in, and Wil- 
fred goes over to Lady Cecil. They are talking about the race- 
ball, and I listen eagerly — so eagerly, I suppose, that my face 
again betrays me, for Lady Cecil, glancing at me, asks if I am 
going. 

“ No,” I answer, regretfully. 

“You are not old enough — not out yet, I suppose,” she says, 
kindly. 

“ I have never been to a ball yet,” I answer; “ my sisters go — 
there would be too many if I went.” 

“ That’s hardly fair, is it, Mr. Carruthers?” 

And I wonder secretly why she should be good enough to take 
so much interest in me. 

“ No,” he answers; “ certainly not.” 

“ Make one of them stay at home,” she says, playfully; “ or 
get them to take you too. You look as if you would enjoy 
dancing.” 

My heart beats at the bare thought; an intense longing creeps 
over me to go to this ball, to have one glimpse of the fashionable 
world, to see Wilfred amongst his own set. 

The rain has ceased. Phoebus is shining as he only can after a 
storm, and Lady Cecil rises to go. 

“ Miss Carlton, I must say good-bye. Mr. Carruthers, please 
ring for the ponies.” 

Three minutes afterward they are at the door; and, turning to 
me, she asks which way I am going. 

“ To Hailing Farm,” I answer. 

‘ Hailing Farm. We pass it on the way to Colton. You must 
let me drive you so far.” 

1 fancy Wilfred looks a shade annoyed as I stammer a pleased 


MY HERO. 47 

assent > but he helps us into the phaeton with equal care, and 
s^nds on the step bareheaded until we drive off. 

^h! for the days of childhood, when a little thing can make 
us so iubilantly happy or so unutterably wretched. I don’t 
know that we ought to regret them so bitterly, though; better to 
have those intense feelings blunted. If we do not enjoy as 
keenly, we cannot suffer as cruelly. \ To-day, because I am riding 
side by side with Lady Cecil for a couple of miles, I am most ra- 
diantly happy. Ah! how sweet the hedge-rows smell, how fair 
and green is mother earth, how bright the sunshine, how blue 
the sky! I glance furtively now and then at the woman who has 
caused me so much pain — she is very beautiful, a delicate per- 
fume seems to hang about her, and she is very, very kind to me. 
I don’t think I can ever feel any rancor toward her again. I 
expect too a little kind of snobbish pride at being seen with this 
great lady animates me, for two or three passers-by who know us 
look askance, and half a mile from home we pass my sisters, who 
stare at me in blank astonishment. 

“Good-bye,” says Lady Cecil, shaking hands with me at the 
gate. “ And mind you come to the ball.” 

I go straight to my room, look at myself in the glass, and then 
sit down despondently by the window. 

“ As if he would look at me,” I say to myself , “ when she is so 
lovely! Only — only that she is married!” That is a great source 
of consolation. I wonder how she can bear life tied to an old 
man like Sir Marmaduke Cecil, and begin to see a cross in the 
fate that at first sight seemed so brilliantly enviable. I say to 
myself, “ Fine clothes and stepping ponies and gi*and society 
must be very delightful; but I would rather be poorly dressed 
and insignificant all my life-time to keep the privilege of loving 
the man who was my heart’s lord.” What a fearful, terrible 
thing, think I in my childish simplicity, to have given yourself 
to one man for his wealth and position, and to find afterward 
that you love another for himself! Surely poverty with Wilfred 
Carruthers would be heaven compared with the wealth of Indus 
with old Sir Marmaduke. But yet how happy she seems — how 
gayly she laughs and talks — how pleasant a thing life appears to 
be with her! Is she really happy, or does she carry the fox at 
her heart, and smile, while unbearable pangs are gnawing at 
her ? Does she care for Mr. Carruthers, and does he care for 
her? Was the meeting intentional this afternoon? I think it 
w^as, and the thought is bitter to me. Then a sudden and violent 
desire seizes me to go to the race-ball. Oh! if they would only, 
only take me! I know they won’t, but that makes my longing 
all the greater. 

The tea-bell rings. Smoothing my hair, I go down-stairs. My 
sisters, who have just come in, are wild to know how I came to 
be driving with Lady Cecil, and I relate the events of the after- 
noon with a feeling of considerable importance. It is with a 
certain shamefacedness at my own hypocrisy, however, that I 
say: 

“ The gentleman who was talking to Lady Cecil in Colton the 
other day was there, and he is Mr. Carruthers’ brother.” 


48 


MY HERO. 


“ The idea!” cries Fanny; “ they never came together!” 

“ Oh, dear no,” I answer quickly; “ it was quite by accident 
they met there.” | 

My sisters, who are much wiser than I, burst into a fit 
laughter. I feel quite furious, and become scarlet. 

“ Rather too transparent, that!” laughs Julia. 

“ Rather!” echoes Anna. 

“ What do you think I heard the other day ?” interposes 
Fanny. “ That she was dreadfully in love with Mr. Carruthers, 
the eldest one, before she married, and would have given any- 
thing to have him.” 

“ Well, she seems to be consoling herself with the other one 
now,” sneers Julia. 

I have been nerving myself for a great coup. 

“ Mamma,” I break out suddenly. “ Lady Cecil and — and — 
Mr. Carruthers both said I ought to go to the race-ball. Oh! 
mamma, dear mamma — papa — won’t you let me go just this 
once, and I'll never, never ask you for anything again as long as 
I live ?” 

My sisters glance at each other and at me as if I had exhibited 
unexpected symptoms of madness. Papa and mamma look sur- 
prised. 

“ Why, my dear,” says papa, “ you’re too young for balls 
yet.” 

“Yes, really, Doris,” echoes mamma. 

“ Upon my word I think your brain has been turned by a 
little notice from these people,” exclaims Fanny, contempt- 
uously. 

I look imploringly from papa to mamma, but they nod kindly 
and say: 

“ Perhaps next year we may talk about it.” 

And I hide my diminished head. But all the same I do not 
cease to long desperately after the ball, and to rack my brain to 
compass going. Oh! for the days of Cinderella — of fairy god- 
mothers and pumpkins; of rats and mice capable of transmigra- 
tion or transmogrification. I form a desperate plan, which two 
days afterward I carry into execution. Jack has come in for an 
hour on his way home from Colton. 

With my whispered entreaty that he will come a little way 
down the lane he complies at once. I wait until we get to the 
big meadow gate shaded by a stunted elm, and then I perch my- 
self solemnly on the top bar, resting one hand on my brother's 
big shoulder. 

“Jack!” I whisper, putt'ing my face close to his, and rubbing 
my cheek against his like a friendly pony, “Jack, do you love 
me?” 

He turns and looks at me. 

“ Is that what you brought me out to ask ?” he inquires. 

“Jack,” I say again, in the most persuasive voice I can com- 
mand, “ would you do anything for me?” 

“Yes, my pet, I would,” he answers, kissing me„“ anything 
in reason, at least.” 


MY HERO. 


49 


“ But if it were something out of reason?” I urge, putting all 
my poor little heart into my voice: “ oh! Jack, woulcl you?” 

“ Why, Cis!” says my brother, looking curiously at niy flushed 
face and quivering lips. “ What in the world can it be ? I never 
saw you so eager about anything before. Well, tell me, at all 
events.” 

“ I want to go to the race-ball.” 

The words came out in a gasp. 

Jack gives a prolonged whistle. 

“ Oh! Jack, if youki only manage it somehow, I would be 
grateful to you forever.” 

I look imploringly at his face as if life or death hung on his 
answer, but he only says, blankly: 

“ That comes of being seventeen, I suppose.” 

“ Oh, Jack!” 

And I put both my arms round his neck, tight enough to 
strangle him. 

I can find no more words. 

“Why do you want to go?” he asks presently; and then as 
if a sudden thought struck him, he turns to me with a grave 
look. 

“ Cis,” he says, “ you’ve not been getting your silly little head 
turned by one of the Colton red-coats, eh ?” 

“ No, no, indeed. Jack,” I answer; but I hide my face on his 
shoulder with a guilty feeling. 

“ But, my dear,” he continues kindly, “ I’m afraid, if you did 
go to this ball, you’d be disappointed. You won’t know any one, 
and it will be very mortifying if you have to sit down all the 
evening.” 

“ Lady Cecil said I was to be sure and go,” I stammer faintly. 

“ Now, Cis, if that’s all your reason for wanting to go,” says 
practical Jack, “ take my advice and stop away. I don’t sup- 
pose Lady Cecil will even remember to nod to you. Don’t you 
go and get the girls’ silly notions into your head. Whatever we 
may have been, we don’t belong to the swells nowadays, and to 
expect or want their notice is only to bring down all sorts of 
mortification on your head. Why, child, I thought you were 
above running after great folk.” 

“ Oh, Jack, it isn’t that!” I cry, imploringly — “ it isn’t indeed. 
And I don’t care if I sit down all the evening, only do — do take 
me this once.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

THE THORNS OF THE ROSE. 

“ If you loved me ever so little, 

I could bear the bonds that gall — 

I could dream the bonds were brittle; 

You do not love me at all.” 

In the end I obtain Jack’s promise, sealed with a kiss; and 
when Jack promises a thing, it goes very hard with him but he 
fulfills it. So he cajoles papa and mamma, defies my sisters, 
and finally declares that he will pay for my ticket and dress, and 


50 


MY HERO, 


take me himself. I don’t believe any one else in the world ever 
had such a brother, bless his dear heart! My sisters, of course, 
are furious. Fanny declines to go to the ball altogether, and I 
do not sleep quite on a bed of roses during the period that inter- 
venes between my rash request and the ball. 

All this time I have never once seen Wilfred Carruthers, 
though my fooMsh heart longs and aches after him, if 'only just 
to see him — to hear his voice once. How I count the days to the 
ball! — how my whole soul is wrapped up in this one event! 
Jack has stipulated that my dress shall be all white, without a 
particle of color, and my sisters make sneering remarks as to the 
fright I shall look with my white face unrelieved by any bright- 
ness. Whether I look well or ill is a very secondary matter of 
importance to me just now. To be present at the ball — to be 
noticed publicly by him (surely he will notice me!) to watch him 
among his own set — I think that happiness will be sufficient. 

Well, the day comes at last — Colton Cup day; and the evening 
of the day arrives in sequence, though I wander up and down in 
a fever all the weary morning and afternoon, counting the min- 
utes as hours, and finding no rest for the sole of my foot. 
Many a loving glance I take at my simple finery, eager for the 
time when I shall don it, and sally forth to my first ball. 

Never did debutante in the fashionable world look more 
eagerly, longingly forward to her appearance in society than I 
do to the race-ball. Not for the sake of the conquests I am to 
make — Heaven knows what small hope or thought I have of 
those! — but for the sake of seeing the one man who is every- 
thing in the world to my poor foolish child’s heart. By half past 
nine I am arrayed in my white dress and satin slippers, which 
Jack sent to London for, because there were none small enough 
at the Colton shops. 

“ Don’t forget to lose your shoe,” he laughs. “ I wonder what 
prince will pick it up.” 

Fanny and Julia turn up their noses at his sally — it is so very 
pointless. 

No flowers or gewgaws wear I in my hair or on my neck and 
arms. If Jack has a fancy for simplicity, he must certainly 
be gratified. 

“ Dear little white daisy,” he says, lovingly. I shouldn’t be 
surprised if tlfe made-up fine ladies don’t envy you.” 

But I smile at his fatuity. 

We arrive at Colton soon after ten— quite early, for the first 
dance has not yet commenced. The grandees have not arrived, 
and the musicians are only just taking their places, and making 
preliminary scrapings of a most exciting nature to my dance- 
loving feet. If there is one thing in the world I love better than 
another, it is dancing, for all I have had so little opportunity of 
indulging my passion. Jack dances the first quadrille with me, 
but I am watching the door so eagerly that I forget my turn, 
and make all sorts of mistakes, until he feels himself called lipon 
to reprove me for my carelessness. 

“ Come, come, you know. Cissy, this won’t do when you dance 
with any one else,” he says, good-humoredly. 


MV HERO. 


f)l 


I try to repress my feverish anxiety, and attend to the quad- 
rille. When it is over, Jack introduces me to a friend for the 
next waltz; and after that one of the officers asks to be intro- 
duced to me. We liave just finished a galop when I see Sir 
Marmaduke and Lady Cecil enter the room. Hosts of gi'eat 
ladies have come in before, and I have never felt the least hu- 
miliated by their superior splendor; but when Lady Cecil svveei>s 
up the room a sudden sense of my own insignificance comes 
across me with positive pain. She too is all in white, but what 
a contrast to my poor cheap tarlatan — shimmering satin, with 
clouds of dainty lace, diamonds in her hair, on her neck, in her 
ears, on her arms. A murmur of admiration goes round the 
room as she enters— Aphrodite leaning on Silenus. 

Eagerly I watch her as she stands laughing and talking 
amongst the aristocratic throng at the upper end of the room, 
and note how the men come swarming round lier. 

I am only vaguely conscious of the remarks of my companion, 
and answer his questions at random. Do I live near Colton, or 
am I only there for the ball ? Have I won many gloves on the 
race ? Did I back Blue Peter or Bucephalus ? Do I prefer a 
brass or string band ? etc. , etc. I should like to be polite. I 
suppose it is a great compliment this fine young dandy with the 
pointed mustache dancing with me at all; but I can see and 
think of nothing but Lady Cecil present and Wilfred Carriithers 
absent. Will he come? My heart almost stands still at the 
bare possibility of anything keeping him away. No, there he is, 
at Lady Cecil’s side. Has he sprung from the ground ? I never 
saw him enter. Now he is bending over the beauty, writing his 
name upon her card, and then I see him paying the same atten- 
tion to a host of other ladies. Until this moment I have never 
put the thought into actual shape that he would ask me to 
dance; but as I see him laughing and talking to these great 
ladies, and writing his name on their programmes, a sense of 
bitter disappointment steals over me. The first bars of tlie 
lancers sound, and my partner leads me to a seat, after putting 
his name down for another dance. It is very charitable of him, 
for I am sure he must have found me unbearably stupid. That 
dance I sit out, getting hot and cold by turns with anxiety and 
disappointment as I think Wilfred Carruthers will not see me. 
Oh! I feel sure he would come and speak to me, if only he once 
caught sight of me. But he is dancing at the upper end of the 
room, amongst all the grand people, and little chance is there of 
his seeing my poor eager face. I try to look calm and uncon- 
scious, but all the time I know that my eyes are straining, and 
my lips quivering, and that I look ready to cry. In the midst of 
it all, whefi I am hoping no one will notice me. Jack comes up, 
and asks if I am enjoying myself. 

“You don’t look very jolly,” he remarks. “ Come, Cis, brisk 
up!” and I feel quite angry and bitter with him for the moment, 
forgetting all I owe to his goodness. 

“ Come and have some refreshment, dear,” he says; and I take 
his arm gladly, though I want nothing. But I would submit to 
the water torture in order to get a little nearer to Wilfred Car- 


50 


MY HERO. 


ruthi^rs. How liandsome he looks! Tliere is no one in the room 
to compare with liim — in my estimation, at least. People may 
call his brother handsomer; I would not name them in the same 
day. 

He is dancing with Lady Cecil now. The waltz has com- 
menced. and he is just putting his arm round her waist. They 
are a splendid pair; miserable, jealous though I am, I cannot 
den}' that, but oh 1 1 hate her in that moment. Mr. Carruthers 
is talking to Lady Flora Lyon. As we pass, his eye falls upon 
me, and, making a hasty apology to her, he comes up to me. 

“ Miss Keane, I hope your card is not full. Will you give me 
a dance?” and I blush with sudden pleasure and surprise. 
Hardly because of the compliment it is for such a great man to 
notice me, but because it takes me a step nearer to his brother. 

“ Oh, thank you,” I answer, feeling very grateful to him, and 
not comprehending that it is unorthodox to show your gratitude 
to a man for asking you to dance. 

“Will you let me have number seven, the next but one?” 

I stammer a glad assent. 

“ And will you think me very importunate if I ask for num- 
ber ten as well ?” 

“ Oh, no,” I answer; and he thanks me in such a courtly, pleas- 
ant voice, giving me back my card when he has written upon it. 
» “ Upon my word, Cis,” whispers Jack, in a delighted voice, 
with a squeeze of my arm, “ I think you are in luck. To have 
such a swell as that wanting to dance twice with you; why, Ju 
and Anna will be ready to tear your eyes out.” 

I suppose I ought to be wild with delight, but I am in such a 
fever of longing foi the notice of Wilfred Carruthers that every 
other drop of pleasure is poisoned. 

As we go back to the ball-room, he passes me quite close, looks 
at me, gives a slight, distant bow, and passes on without fur- 
ther notice. The hot blood rushes to my cheeks, the tears to 
my eyes, a sudden unbearable pain catches me, and I can 
scarcely command my trembling knees. When a tall, fair- 
haired man comes up with my first partner, and is introduced 
to me, I look almost wildly at him, and can scarcely control my 
voice sufficiently to answer him when he asks me for a dance. 

What do I care though every man in the room went on his 
knees to ask me for a dance, when he has passed me with such a 
slighting recognition ? Somehow, I get through the dance, and 
answer what is said to me; and then Mr. Carruthers, coming to 
claim me, carries me off to the upper end of the room. I catch 
sight of my sisters watching me with envious eyes — oh! if they 
could only see how bitter and mortified, rather than exultant, is 
my hearty little would they envy me. Devoutly I thank Heaveii 
that the power of reading each other’s breasts is withheld from 
us mortals. One thing I am grateful for, and that is, Mr. Car- 
ruthers’ exceeding kindness! He treats me with as courteous 
consideration as if I were one of the greatest ladies; and I can 
see the iialf curious, half supercilious looks with which the fair 
brood regard the little stranger bird. Lady Cecil is dancing in 
the same set; she stops and speaks kindly to me, saying she is 


MY HERO. 


53 


glad to see I have come to the ball after all. I cannot find a 
word to answer her, but only blush exceedingly, feeling very 
silly and awkward. 

“ Do you like balb?” Mr. Carruthers asked me. 

“ I never was at one before.” 

“ Then, of course, you are enjoying it immensely,” he smiles. 

And I answer: 

“ Oh, yes,” thinking that I have never been much more 
wretched. 

“lam longing for my waltz with you,” he says again, pres- 
ently. “ I have been watching you, and I don’t think there is a 
better dancer in the room. You glide about like a little fairy.” 

“ I am glad you think so,” I respond, shyly. “ I am so very, 
very fond of dancing. But perhaps I shall disappoint you when 
the time comes.” 

“ No, that I’m sure you won’t,” says Mr. Carruthers heartily, 
looking down at me so kindly with his blue eyes that I cannot 
help thinking them beautiful, though not like Wilfred’s. 

All this time I am watching the man w'ho has been my hero, 
but who seems now as if he never wanted or cared to be any- 
thing to me again. He is standing near the doorway, watching 
Lady Cecil with a look of dreamy intensity, never once remov- 
ing his eyes. If I could only hide myself away somewhere to 
cry my heart out, but I am obliged to talk and smile. Now and 
then I fancy Mr. Carruthers looks at me with a long penetrating 
gaze, and feel horribly afraid lest he should discover my secret. 

“ Have you been helping old Hay in his garden lately ?” he 
asks me presently. 

“ No,” I answer, “not since — not since the day ” 

“ When I first had the pleasure of seeing you ?” he interposes. 

“ No.” 

“ I have often been by since, and looked out for you. If I had 
been a painter I should have liked to have made a sketch of 
you.” 

“What! picking up slugs?” I asked, laughing in spite of my- 
self. 

“Yes, slugs and all, though I did not know that was your 
occupation, Wt I could see you were practicing the virtue of 
charity very sweetly and helpfully.” 

“Oh! that was nothing,” I disclaim. “ Old 'Hay was our 
servant once — he’s a dear old man — I like nothing better than to 
go and see him.” 

“ Do you read to him sometimes?” 

“ Oh! yes, very often when his eyes are bad.” 

“Ah! I remember his telling me once of a dear, sweet little 
lady who was as good as eyes to him in the winter-time. That 
must have been you.” 

“ I don’t know,” I stammer, rather confused. 

“ It makes me almost feel envious of the old fellow,” says Mr. 
Carruthers. 

And I laugh, thinking this is the polite jargon fashionable 
gentlemen talk to fashionable ladies, but which is thrown away 
upon me. 


54 


MY HERO. 


The quadrille over, he gives me his arm, and leads me into 
another room. A tall dark-haired man comes and whispers 
something in his ear; and turning to me, he asks if I will per- 
mit him to introduce Lord Levinge. Why does fate hold the 
balance so carefully between pleasure and pain, taking such in- 
finite pains to drop the lead into the scale when the former 
wants to gain the ascendency ? Pain may be bearing down with 
pound weights, and scarce a feather in pleasure’s side, and it 
never interferes then. 

I ought to be the happiest, blithest, most exultant maiden in 
all the. Colton Assembly Rooms, and Heaven help the one 
who is more miserable! Lord Levinge asks me to dance the 
next dance, and Mr. Carruthers, transferring me to his arm, 
goes away. 

As I return to the ball-room on the arm of a lord — whom, by 
the way, I am tremendously afraid of — Wilfred Carruthers stops 
n'^e. My face brightens up all at once, my heart gives a great 
bound, and I am lifted to the seventh heaven. Only for a 
moment, though; his manner, too, is so markedly, exaggeratedly 
courteous, it gives me a sense of my own inferiority that neither 
his brother’s nor Lord Levinge’s has done. 

“Will you do me the honor of dancing with me ?” he asks, 
and I give him my card eagerly. He writes his name for the 
last dance but one, and I feel more bitterly disappointed than if 
he had not asked me at all. I cannot help saying wistfully, as I 
look in his face with entreating eyes: 

“ I am afraid I shall be gone before then.” 

“I hope not,” he answers coldly, returning my card; and I 
feel my cheeks burn, and my eyes get dim as he turns away. 
The effort must be made to laugh and talk to Lord Levinge, but 
I am conscious all the while that my gayety is a miserable 
sham, which deceives nobody. But he is most kind and court- 
eous, and when the waltz is over asks me to dance the next one 
with him. That finished, Mr. Carruthers claims me again, and 
all this time I am dancing at the upper end of the room amongst 
the magnates, my sisters are watching me with amazement and 
envy. Then comes my dance with the officer. Lord Levinge 
and Mr. Carruthers both ask me again, and I can see that Lady 
Flora Lyon looks haughtily angry at me, more especially when 
Mr. Carruthers places me near her at supper, and insists on fill- 
ing my plate with every delicacy. 

It is very good of him, but I cannot swallow a morsel for the 
choking sensation in my throat. I drink a little champagne, al- 
though it is nauseous to me, and Mr. Carruthers seems quite 
anxious at my inability to eat. 

“Young ladies never do eat at their first ball, you know,” 
says old Sir Marmaduke Cecil from behind — “ they can live on 
excitement: we want something a little more substantial, eh, 
Elsleigh ?” and he helps himself to a plateful of truffle pie and 
aspic jelly. “ A little more champagne, Carruthers. I know 
it’s good, as you undertook to cater for us.” 

All this time I am watching Wilfred Carruthers and Lady 
Cecil, who are laughing and whispering together a little further 


MY HERO. 


55 


up the table on the opposite side. I cannot help turning to 
glance at Sir Marmaduke. Is he, I wonder, suffering any part 
of the excruciating pangs that tear my heart ? Just at this mo- 
ment he is supremely happy with his teuffles and champagne — 
the expression of his countenance benign and radiant — no fox 
gnaws at his vitals— he is not even troubled by the thought of a 
morrow after the indulgence of to-night. 

As we return to the ball-room. Lady Cecil and Wilfred Car- 
ruthers are just in front of us. She leans with a fascinating 
languor upon his arm — he bends down to her with all the tender- 
ness of a lover. In my simplicity I wonder how she, a married 
woman, can hang thus upon a man who is not her husband, and 
wonder more that no one else but myself seems to remark any- 
thing strange in it. 

“ I shall have to go very soon,” I hear her say. “ Sir Marma- 
duke will not be beguiled into staying long after supper.” 

“ When you leave, I shall,” whispers Wilfred. “There will 
be nothing left me to stay for.” 

‘ ‘ Not la belle ingenue f she laughs. 

A sudden chill creeps over me — that is the name by which he 
once mockingly called me : can it be possible they are speaking 
of me ? Can he have been so cruel as to tell her ? For a mo- 
ment I hate them both with a cliild’s passionate anger. 

“Not even Za belle mgenue,’’’' hQ sneers; and at the moment 
she half turns her head and sees me. Her fingers tighten on his 
arm, then I know it was me they meant. There is only one 
thing I want now — to be gone, out of sight, out of hearing of 
them. 

My dream is done. I am awake with a rough grasp upon me, 
and I long to hide myself out of the world’s sight. Now I see 
how bitterness may lurk beneath the world’s most tempting gifts; 
now I perceive how one may be amongst the gay, the great, ca- 
ressed and flattered, yet more miserable than the beggar asking 
a crust. Hitherto I have seen the rose with its velvet leaves, its 
sweet perfume, its dainty hues, now I am shown the worm gnaw- 
ing at its core. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A SILVER PROBE. 

“ Why, let the stricken deer go weep, 

The hart ungalled play. 

For some must watch while some may sleep, 

Thus runs the world away.” 

I AM utterly, intensely thankful when my sisters, who have 
not enjoyed their evening very much, declare they are tired to 
death, and must and will positively go. Lady Cecil and Wilfred 
Carruthers have both left; Jack is all for stopping— the dear fel- 
low thinks I must be enjoying my evening so supremely, look- 
ing at the favorable circumstances which have attended it. He 
seems quite surprised w^hen I confess my willingness to go. As 
soon as we are ready in the fly, he gives me a hearty hug. 
“ Well, little one,” he says, “I think you’ve just about done it 


56 


MY HERO. 


to-night. I never knew such a lucky little puss in all my life.” 
And he rattles on about my triumphs, and this, that, and the 
other, all tending to my glorification, though I try to stop him, 
knowing it is not pleasant hearing to my sisters, who, silent and 
cross, pretend to be asleep in their corners. But nothing will 
silence him. Dear fellow, I am sure he had a happy evening, if 
no one else had; but then Providence justly ordains that we are 
always the happier for doing a kind action. 

Papa and mamma are both sitting up for us, and Jack has 
willing listeners to his recital of my good fortune, while my sis- 
ters take their candles and go to bed, and I am very glad to fol- 
low them. When Hepzibah has grumblingly unfastened my 
dress, and left me, I sit down on the edge of my bed and look 
blankly before me. I cannot cry — that would be a relief — but I 
sit there benumbed into a kind of stupor, trying to conquer my 
love, and with it my pain. I call myself hard names; I inveigh 
bitterly against my folly in caring for this man, who is so ut- 
terly, scornfully indifferent to me. I try to tell myself I will 
never think of him — never strive to see him again. But the end 
of it all is that I throw myself down on my pillow, muttering 
passionately, “ Oh! Wilfred, Wilfred, won’t you care for me* a 
little when I love you so ?” I would go to the world’s end for a 
kind word from him. It may be folly, madness, but in spite of 
all, the love of him thrills through every vein of my aching 
heart. 

At breakfast the next morning every one wonders to see my 
scared wan face; they think to find me jubilant and triumphant 
at the success of my evening. Success! little they guess what a 
miserable failure I had found the much -longed-for ball. 

Two days later I am sent into Colton to execute some com- 
niissions for mamma. My sisters have taken the pony-carriage 
in an opposite direction. The distance from our house is three 
miles, and I am to walk there and back — no hardship to me, 
good walker as I am, and used to perpetual motion. 

Having finished my shopping, I am sauntering slowly out of 
the town, when the sound of prancing hoofs behind makes 
me look round. It is Lady Cecil's ponies, and I turn my head 
quickly the other way. But she pulls them up, exclaiming: 

“ Miss Keane!” 

Perforce I stopped and looked at her. She is lovelier than 
ever to-day, all in silver gray, with scarlet geraniums in her 
white hat; and I, feeling jealous of her, cannot bear to look at 
her radiant beauty and elegant apparel. 

“ Miss Keane, where are you going ?” 

“ Home,” I answer, reluctantly taking the hand she stretches 
toward me. I do not know if it is right to say my lady to her, 
so I say nothing. 

“ Get in, will you ?” she says. 

“ No, thank you,” I answer. 

“ Oh! do! — I want to speak to you.” 

Still I shake my head. 

“ Do— won’t you?” she says again; and I reply, trying to stifle 
my bitterness; 


MY HERO. 


5? 


“ I will not trouble you.” 

“Come, I insist,” she continues, smiling very sweetly, and I 
feel constrained to do as she desires. It comes across me to 
wonder if she likes to make me a foil in my shabbiness for her 
beauty. 

“ That’s right,” she exclaims, as I take my place beside her, 
and then as we get outside the town, she pulls the ponies up in a 
walk. 

“ How did you like the ball?” she asks, presently. 

The color comes into my cheeks as I feel she must have known 
and triumphed over my misery and is only seeking to mortify 
me. 

“ Very much, thank you,” I answer, biting my lips. 

“You had quite a success— Lord Levinge and Mr. Carruthers 
were both epris with you.” 

1 am silent. 

“ Do you like Wilfred Canruthers?” she asks, presently, flick- 
ing a bough that protrudes from the hedge with her delicate 
whip. 

Why does this elegant, high-bred woman want to torture a 
poor simple rustic like me ? Why does she even stoop to notice 
an insignificant worm, that she can set her aristocratic feet upon 
with impunity? I am at a loss what answer to make; and as I 
remain silent, she turns and looks interrogatively at me. 

“ I scarcely know anything of Mr. Wilfred Carruthers,” is my 
reply, given defiantly. 

“ But you have seen him several times.” 

“ It is little matter if I like him or not,” I say, biting my lips. 

“ He would scarcely deign to notice me before grand people.” 

“ Then he is different alone with you?” and Lady Cecil shoots 
a questioning glance at me. 1 crimson with anger and con- 
fusion. 

“ I don’t know what he would do,” I stammer. “ I am never 
likely to see him alone.” 

She is silent for a moment, then she says 

“ Do you think him very handsome ?” ^ 

“ Yes,” I answer coldly. f 

“ And clever?” 

“ Yes,” 1 say again, “ At least I suppose so. I have no means 
of knowing.” 

“ Yes,” says Lady Cecil, thoughtfully, “ he is just the man to 
fascinate a young girl. “ Will you take a piece of advice from 
me. Miss Keane ?” 

I am silent. 

“ Don’t let him gain any influence, over you; he is a thorough 
man of the world, he might do you harm, and could never do 
you any good.” 

My lip curls in very scorn. This is too transparent— her try- 
ing to undeiTate Wilfred Carruthers to me. And surely her 
own charms are potent enough to remove all fear of such a poor 
rival as I. 

“ You may misunderstand or misjudge me,” she continues, 


58 


MY HERO. 


quickly, “ but I am advising you for your good. The less you 
have to do with Wilfred Carruthers the better.” 

“Thank you,” I return, proudly, “your caution is unneces- 
sary — I am nothing to Mr. Carruthers.” 

“ But is he nothing to you ?” she asks, quickly. 

Angry tears well into my eyes, A sense of passionate wrath 
overcomes m« at the cruelty of this woman, from whom I can- 
not escape. 

“I do not know why you say these tilings to me,” I exclaimed, 
bitterly. 

“ I will not say any more, since it offends you,” she answers, 
coldly, touching the off pony lightly with her whip, and they 
break into a sharp trot. 

Not anotlier word is spoken between us until we come to the 
farm; and she wishes me a cold good-bye, without offering me 
her hand. I am glad she does not; my heart is so full of indig- 
nant bitterness against her, I could scarcely bear even the light 
clasp of her slim fingers. Not a word of thanks do I utter; my 
head is erect — I bow haughtily, to the full as proud as she. I 
have not sought her favors, nor her company. Why did she 
notice me, except to triumph over and mortify me ? Why should 
she give me advice about Mr. Carruthers, except for some hidden 
selfish motive that I cannot as yet comprehend ? 

Two more days pass, that are spent by me in the woods, in 
longing for sight of the man to whom my heart clings more 
intensely than ever. If I could only, only see him — just hear 
the sound of his voice once, even though it spurned me. 

It is becoming a madness, that longing to see him, despite of 
coldness, slight, and indifference. When I reach home on the 
second evening, a great confabulation is going on in the drawing- 
room. 

“ What do you think has happened, Doris?” says mamma, as I 
enter. “Miss Carlton has been here with a note from Lady 
Cecil, in which she invites you to ^o over to Lofton Park next 
week, to dine and ** v the night, I think you are a lucky 
girl.” 

My breath comes and goes with a strange fluttering. 

“ Mamma,” I gasp, “ I — I would rather not go.” 

“Not go!’ cry my sisters in a breath. “Are you mad, 
Doris ?” 

“ No,” I say, collecting myself, “ but I don’t want to go.” 

They all look at me as if sudden insanity had taken possession 
of me. 

“ This is too ridiculous!” exclaims Fanny. 

“ My dear child!” utters my mother, bewildered, “ what are 
you thinking of ?” 

“ I don’t like Lady Cecil,” I say, coloring, “ and I do not care 
to go to her house.” 

“Oh, do pray ruin the only chance the family has ever had 
of looking up,” exclaims Julia, sarcastically, “it will give us 
another proof of your sense.” 

“ If you offend Lady Cecil you may depend on it none of your 
grand acquaintances will ever notice you again,” chimes in Anna, 


MY HERO, 


id 

angrily. “ I suppose the little notice you had at the ball has 
quite turned your brain, and you think it fine to give yourself 
airs.” 

“ I do not wish to go,” I say, resolutely. 

But the more I oppose the more they insist; and when at last 
papa and mamma seriously represent to me the folly of declin- 
ing such a compliment, and the injury it may inflict on the rest 
of the family, I am fain to give in. Miss Carlton is to chaperon 
me, and a polite acceptance is sent through her to Lady Cecil. 

Two new dresses are purchased for me, the first I have ever 
had in my life — a pink silk for the dinner and a morning toilet 
of blue and white muslin. 

Here was Fortune showering favors upon me that would have 
driven me crazy with delight three months ago, and withal 
holding back from me all power to enjoy them. 

“ Such is life;” a triteism taken not from memories of copy- 
books, but from a seal with which I was wont to fasten my 
letters, depicting a curiously masted ship roughing it in very 
curly billows. 

I don’t know how I get through the time that intervenes be- 
tween the invitation and my visit to Lofton Park, but I am con- 
siderably uneasy and nervous, unable to settle to anything, long- 
ing most intensely for one glimpse of my Greek hero, arid 
longing in vain. 

My sisters are wild with envy at my good fortune, and I am 
dreading the day with a horror quite inadequate to the occa- 
sion. 

I know^ in my heart that I am only going to my bitter humilia- 
tion — to a repetition of the heartache, the impotent, defenseless 
wretchedness of the race-ball; and I shrink from it as a wounded 
animal would shrink from a rough hand laid upon its cruel 
hurt. 

Great preparations are made for this grand occasion. My 
sisters, feeling how much depends on my success, strive hard to 
make the best of me; lend me their ornaments, and go individu- 
ally and collectively into despair at my incompetency to arrange 
my hair in a fashionable manner. They insist on giving me les. 
sons; and I am docile and obedient, though in my own mind I 
feel sure it suits my small face better to have my hair twisted up 
in simple coil than elaborately braided and puffed out as they 
desire. However, it little matters, I say bitterly to myself; 
braided, twisted, disheveled, it will be all equally powerless to 
make me pleasing in the eyes of Wilfred Carruthers when Lady 
Cecil is present; so they may e’en do with me as they choose. 


.0 


MY HERO. 


CHAPTEI? XV. 

THE BLACK KITTEN. 

“ Nay, what have I said? 

I would not be glad if I could. 

My dream and my dread 

/ Are of her.” 

“ I SAY, Cis,-’ says Harry, the morning before the pending 
dinner-party, ** there’s some new kittens in the loft — come and 
see ’em.” 

I, who dote on kittens, comply without demur. 

“Is there a black one amongst them?” 1 inquired, breath- 
lessly, as we rush across the yard. 

“ Yes, an ugly little beast; we’re going to drown it, Dick 
and I.” 

“ OhI you mustn’t indeed — I w ant it,” I cry, having some- 
where heard that when a black cat comes into a family it brings 
luck. 

“ Why, you’ve got three cats already,” retorts Harry: “ and I 
know ma won’t have another about the house.” 

“ Very well, then. I’ll keep it in the loft — anywhere; but have 
it I must,” is my resolute response. 

“ I wouldn’t have told you if I’d known,” he says, sulkily. 
“ There’ll only be tw o for us to drown now, for Jack Ryan’s go- 
ing to have one of the tabbies.” 

“ Oh! you cruel boy!” I utter, reproachfully. 

It has always been a source of wonder to me, that innate love 
of cruelty in boys — that savage, intense delight in inflicting suf- 
fering. I know many a kind, good-natured, tender-hearted 
man now- w-ho’d have thought it flne fun to stone a cat, or shoot 
rabbits from a sack, or such like cruelties in his boyish days, 
without a vestige of apparent consciousness that he w^as doing 
anything cruel. 

“ Very well,” retorts Harry, “ if I’m cruel, then you sha’n’t see 
’em at all,” and he dashes suddenly into the stables, bolting me 
out. “ I’ll go up and wring the black one’s neck now,” he says, 
viciously, through the key-hole. 

“Oh! Harry, please, please, don’t!” I entreat, almost ready to 
cry with fear lest he should carry out his threat. 

“ Very well, then, say I’m not cruel, and you told a story when 
you said I was,” says my brother, tyrannically, taking a mean 
advantage of the superiority of his position. 

“ You’re not cruel; and I told a story when I said you were,” 
I repeat, obediently; and he unlatches the door suddenly, which 
almost causes me to tumble in head foremost. 

“ That’s like a w^oman,” he utters, disdainfully — “ to say one 
thing one moment, and then to turn round again the next and 
say the opposite, just because she wants something out of you.” 

“And pray, sir, what do you know about women ?” I ask this 
juvenile moralizer, with an irrepressible smile. 

“ A good deal more than you think,” he replies, dogmatically 
— “ I know you’re all a jolly lot of humbugs, and don’t care 


3IY HERO, 


>1 


what stories you tell if you want to get anything out of a 
fellow.” 

‘ ‘ I suppose Amy’s been doing something to offend you,” I sur- 
mise; “eh, Harry?” 

Amy is the young lady of Harry’s affections, whose brothers 
go to his school. 

“ She’s a nasty little humbug,” replies my brother, viciously, 
“ and I’ll never believe in a girl again.” 

“ Why, what has she been doing?” 

“Oh! yes, I dare say you’d like to know. Miss Inquisitive,” he 
retorts. 

“ Of course I should,” is my answer. “ I always like to know 
anything that concerns any of you boys.” 

“ Well,” returns Harry, after a moment’s deliberation, plant- 
ing his back to the wall, regardless of whitewash. “ I don’t 
mind telling you; but you promise faithfully not to tell the 
others, mind.” 

“I promise.” 

“Ah! but you broke your word just now,” he says, suspi- 
ciously. 

“ Oh! but that was different.” 

“Well, you know, I saved up all my pocket-money along 
time before last Valentine’s day, and sold my four-bladed knife 
into the bargain, to buy her a valentine. Well, it was a stunner, 
and I gave seven-and-sixpence for it. Now, Cis, would you be- 
lieve it” (getting very excited), “if that little snub-nosed beast 
Mattson hadn’t got it in his pocket last week, and showed it to 
me behind the Latin Grammar! I didn’t take any notice then, 
but as soon as school was over I took it away from him, tore it 
to bits, and punched his head well. I got a precious licking for 
it afterward, but I didn’t care a pin for that.” 

“What a shame!” I say, sympathetically. “And what did 
Amy say ?” 

‘ ‘ Swore she didn’t give it him ; but I knew better, because 
her brother Bob saw her. Women are all alike. There was 
Lady Cecil the other day— she’s a real beauty, if you like, 
though!” 

“ What of her?” I say, eagerly. 

“ Why, the other day I was up at Southcote Park with old Hay 
— he had often promised to take me to see the stables. Oh! I 
say, Cis — you would just like to see them — fit for a king to live 
in, cost no end of money to do up last year.” 

“Yes, but about Lady Cecil,” I interrupt, impatiently. 

“ Well, I’m coming to her, if you’ll give me time. She came 
in with Mr. Carruthers’ brother” (oh! why will my cheeks get 
red?)— “well, miss, what are you blushing about? It wasn’t 
the one who danced with you at the ball ” 

“Go on, goon,” I say almost crossly, for his unconscious stab 
goes home. 

“Well, she came in with him— Mr. William, I think they 
called him— and she had a rose in her hand, and by the way he 
looked I knew he was asking for it, but she wouldn’t give it 
him. Just after, in comes Mr. Carruthers, with the most bea.i^ 


Z2 MY HERO. 

tiful little dog you ever saw — oh! such a mite, you could almost 
put it in a teacup. 

“ ‘ Oh! what a little darling,’ says she. ‘ Oh! Mr. Carruthers, 
you must sell it to me.’ 

“‘I’d give it to you in a moment,’ says he, ‘ only it’s half 
promised to Mrs. Forsyth.’ 

“ Then I heard the other one whisper to her: 

“ ‘ I’ll get it for you,’ and she smiles up at him, oh! as sweet 
as honey, and gives him the rose, and her hand to squeeze with 
it.” 

“ Did they see you there, Harry ?” I ask, rather hoping not, as 
my brother’s week-day costume is not of the most recherche 
order. “ Did they know who you were?” 

“Oh, yes; the brother’s a nasty, stuck-up chap. He didn’t 
notice me, but Mr. Carruthers was very kind, and spoke to me; 
and when he found who I was he told me to go to the kitchen- 
garden and have as much fruit as I liked. And didn’t I just, 
too!” adds Harry, smacking his lips at the bare remembrance. 

“ And was that all he said ?” 

“ No, he asked me something about my sisters, and if they 
liked flowers; and I was to tell the head gardener to give me a 
lot, but it wasn’t likely I was going to bother with rubbish like 
that.” 

I forbear any remonstrance — it was not Wilfred who had 
wanted to send them, or I should not have passed so lightly over 
Harry’s selfishness; and besides, my heart is too bitterly full of the 
thought that he is as devoted to Lady Cecil as he is indifferent 
to me. Oh! if I could only, only get out of going to this hate- 
ful party, where I already see so much humiliation in store for 
me. Of course Wilfred will be there — of com'se he will devote 
himself to her — of course my tell-tale face will betray my misery, 
and she will triumph in hei' soft, cruel, delicate way. Oh! just 
for two days to be a charming, lovely woman of the world! to 
foil her with her own weapons, and then to sink back into the 
poor little country girl whom no one cares for. But I remember 
with shame and confusion my attempt to fascinate Wilfred at 
Whitehouse, and give up all idea of a second trial. 

To-morrow night! well, it will soon be here now. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

A GLIMPSE OF EL DORADO. 

“ Quel bonheur plus grand que de croire en quelqu’un que Ton estime 
au-dessus de tous les hommages, que Ton admire comme un etre su- 
perieur a soi-meme, superieur a tout ce que Ton connait dans le meme 
ordre.” 

To-morrow becomes to-day, and, in spite of my prescience of 
evil and discomfiture, I cannot help feeling one throb of pleasure 
that I am at least going to see Wilfred Carruthers. I will nerve 
myself to a mighty effort; I will learn to make my face inscrut- 
able, so that even though I suffer, no one shall guess it. If I 
am to go amongst people of fashion, at least I must try to copy 
their ways, I promise yet more to myself. I will not even suf- 


MY HERO. 


63 


fer, but wiH school myself to indifference, will learn to look on 
unmoved while he bends over Lady Cecil smiling in her eyes. 
Surely the power of controlling our hearts must be given to us; 
surely we are not such poor miserable puppets of fate as to be 
doomed to suffer these tortures against our fixed downright will. 

Lady Cecil will send a carriage; Miss Carlton is to call for me. 
We are to go dressed for dinner, taking our morning toilets with 
us. My sisters all come in to take part in my equipment, and I 
resign myself passively to their direction, with a latent hope 
that they may after all make something of me. 

When 1 am appareled in all my grandeur, the whole family 
comes to survey me, and turns me about for inspection, until I 
am hot, sick, nervous, and dying to get away. I can see that my 
sisters are not satisfied with the result of their labors, and don’t 
expect much from my appearance; but the boys are all enthu- 
siastic, from Han*y, who says I look “ screaming,” to Jack, who 
avers that I am like a dear little white rosebud. 

Seven o’clock; the carriage rolls up to the door, making sad 
havoc of our carefully-rolled gravel; and Miss Carlton is looking 
out, all smiles and voluble promises to take care of me. I should 
like to sit back and be quiet during our five-mile drive, but my 
companion is in a most loquacious mood, and gives me no oppor- 
tunity for indulging my desire for taciturnity. So delighted to 
have been instrumental in bringing me out! — so fortunate I 
should have met Lady Cecil that day at Whitehouse! — such a 
charming place to stay atJ — such a great thing for my future 
Lady Cecil taking a fancy me! she rattles on, and I try to put 
some enthusiasm into my responses, but feel weighed upon and 
out of spirits all the time. 

At last we get to the lodge gates of Lofton Park, and stop 
presently at the broad flight of steps in front of the house. It 
is a massive stone building, almost square — big enough for a 
palace, it seems to me — and there are beautiful gardens in front 
of it, laid out with every bright hue and shade of color, inter- 
spersed by fountains and orange-trees in green tubs. Further 
off there is a great lake, and beyond that a forest of trees sloping 
upward to the very verge of the horizon. A great many powdered 
footmen are standing round the door, and I feel extremely small 
and insignificant as two of them hand me out, and march me 
into the splendid hall, as big, I think, as the whole ground-floor 
of Hailing Farm, hung with trophies of war and of the chase. 

Divested of our cloaks, we are handed through a host of 
oflicials, to the drawing-room at last; and I try to look uncon- 
cerned as we pass through a suit of rooms whose magnificence 
seems, to my simple!, untutored eyes, to surpass even that men- 
tioned in my fairy tales. As we enter, Lady Cecil comes for- 
ward from the other end of the room, takes us warmly by the 
hand, telling us cordially how glad she is to see us; then she pre- 
sents me to Sir Marmaduke, who, though most cordial in manner, 
frightens me a little; and then I am left sitting by myself, while 
our host and hostess go forward to greet fresh guests. 

Timidly I look around. Several ladies and gentlemen are dis- 
persed about, all strangers to me, of course. Wilfred Carruth- 


64 


MY HERO.. 


ers is not among them, and for the first time tlie- possiiiility 
dawns across my mind that he may not be coming at all. My 
face burns with sudden crimson at the bare thought. His ab- 
sence seems a worse calamity than his not noticing me, being 
present. My eyes wander from the lace and diamonds of the 
ladies to the picture-lined wails and the curious cabinets of won- 
derful turquois blue china (I don’t know Sevres from Chelsea), 
and quaint little figures sheltering under trees with impossibly 
big leaves, that stand all round the room. One thing I notice 
wdth surprise— that the graceful blue festoons above the windows 
are not drapery, but carved wood. 

Absorbed in my discovery, 1 do not notice that some one lias 
come up, and is standing at my elbow, until a voice says, “ How 
do you do. Miss Keane? Will you recall your errant spirit to 
earth ?” and I look around with a gentle start. I don’t think 
there is anything more unpleasant than being made to jump, 
particularly when that saltatory movement is followed by a 
rush of blood from every part of your body to your face; except 
it is that the person who has caused you such dire confusion 
sliould stand smiling, with perfect consciousness and enjoyment 
of the effect he has produced. That is what Mr. Wilfred Car- 
ruthers is doing at this moment. 

“ How you frightened me!” I gasp, and he, smiling again, an- 
swers: 

“ So I perceive. Any one would think I had detected you in 
some very guilty act, instead of the harnilesss one of indulging 
the curiosity of your sex,” and he sits down beside me. 

“ I did not know you were in the room,” I say, beginning to 
cool down a little. 

“ How should you, when for the last five minutes your eyes 
have been heavenward, or ceiling ward — at all events, very far 
above my head ? I saw you the moment I entered.” 

Did you ?” A sudden joy comes across me at the tenderness * 
of his voice, and I have forgotten all his neglect, all my bitter- 
ness — everything but the delight of hearing his voice once more 
speaking with the old accents. 

“ As if my eyes would not find you whenever and wherever 
you were near me!” he whispers, in his low, harmonious 
voice; and I forget that I am in a dry, prosaic world, where other 
people are waiting impatiently for their dinner, and laboring to 
get over the intervening moments with rather disjointed Small- 
talk, and am half in a dream of exquisite delight, from which I 
am fain never to awake. “ Do you believe in magnetic influ- 
ence?” he continues; and I look up at him with my poor tell-tale 
face confessing how ready I am to believe anything and every- 
thing that he chooses. I suppose he accepts the answer of my 
eyes, for he presses his question no further, but looks tenderly at 
me, until I am fain to let my glance fall into my lap. 

“ Here comes my brother,” he says presently. “ Must I leave 
you to him ?” 

And I say “ No, no, please don’t,” in an imploring voice, that 
makes him smile. 


MY HERO. 65 

Oh, I do wish he would not smile like that! It says in plain 
language to me: 

“ I know you love me, poor little child. I know you are my 
slave, and I 5 "our master. You cannot hide from me the flutter- 
ings of your breast.” 

Mr. Carruthers comes up holding out his hand, and looking 
as if he were really glad to see me. 

“How d’ye do, Miss Keane? What an age it seems since 1 
saw you! I did not know there was such a pleasure in store for 
me to-night.” And then Wilfred, rising, moved off, unheedful 
of my imploring glance. His brother drops into the vacant seat, 
while I feel impatiently indignant with him for having spoiled 
my delicious tete-a-tete. 

“ You went away so suddenly the other night,” he says, draw- 
ing quite near, and fixing his eyes on my face. “ I searched all 
round the rooms for you, but you were gone.” 

“Did you?” I answer coldly, following Wilfred wdth my 
eyes. 

“Yes, and I have been past Hailing Farm a dozen times 
since.” 

I am silent, scarcely hearing what he says, only intent on 
watching Wilfred. 

“ I hope Lady Cecil will let me take you in to dinner,” he 
says again. “Will you agree to it, if I prevail on her?” 

“ Oh, thank you,” I murmur, with a ghastly attempt to smile, 
feeling that my sudden glimpse of blue sky is lost irretrievably, 
now Wilfred’s back is turned to me. 

Of course it was insane to imagine any such happiness as being 
taken in to dinner by him; and I ought to feel grateful for the 
compliment paid me by Mr. Carruthers. But youth is irreflective 
and inconsequent, and would a thousand times sooner hang upon 
the arm of the “ poor devil of a younger brother” than of the 
elder scion of his house, the parti. I would, I know, for all Mr. 
Carruthers is handsome, is kind, and has never made me feel 
vexed or small. I see him go up, whisper to Lady Cecil, see her 
smile, with a shake of the head and a little glance toward Lady 
Flora Lyon, whose handsome face wears a decidedly sulky ex- 
pression. It seems a kind of respite for me. There is yet a hope, 
a very forlorn one, it is true, that I may fall to the share of Wil- 
fred, as he cannot, of course, take his hostess. Another moment 
dinner is announce'^; then, as the dowagers in diamonds are 
pairing off with portly partners, I see Wilfred come toward me 
with the sweetest smile on his face; and if ever there was one 
moment of supreme happiness in my life I tliink it is this. 

“ One does not often get a pull over one’s rich brother,” he 
whispers; “ but 1 have to-night. He doesn’t look pleased, does 
he ? It’s a trick of his to gnaw his mustache when anything 
makes him angry. La belle Flore doesn’t look pleased either.” 

My face is radiant with happy smiles. I catch Mr. Carruthers’ 
eye fixed upon me with a vexed expression. 

“ When you know a little more of the world,” whispers Wil- 
fred, “ you will never drearn of committing the indiscretion of 
preferring a poor man to a rich one.” 


66 


MY HERO. 


“What does it matter about people being rich ?” I return, in 

an impetuous sotto voce. “ I would fifty times rather 

Here I stop coloring. 

“ What?” 

I remain silent. 

“ What, little one?” 

“Oh! I don’t know,” I murmur, confused. “ I was only going 
to say something foolish.” 

“ Tell me,” he whispers, with soft entreaty that I cannot re- 
sist. So I say, very lowly and shamefacedly: 

“ be with you than the richest man in all the world.” 

He presses the hand that lies on his arm, and whispers some- 
thing that sounds like darling. 

By this time we are in the dining-room — it might be fairyland 
for me — seeing there is every facination for my dazzled senses. 
A costly chamber hung with rare paintings; silver lamps throw- 
ing a subdued light over the scene: a magnificent profusion of 
gold and silver plate; glass gleaming like crystal: piles of costly 
fruit, fabulous to my simple eyes; and rich, rare flowers, bloom- 
ing like a transplanted garden, and lading the air with their rich 
scents; and lastly — oh! not least — my fairy prince beside rrve, 
smiling in my eyes, looking glad of me, speaking, in a soft, en- 
trancing whisper, words that make the blood dance through my 
veins, and fill me with a wild sense of rapture. There is only 
one little drawback to my enjoyment. Mr. Carruthers is just 
opposite, and through a break in the vista of flowers I can see 
his eyes fixed on me almost every time that I look up, and they 
do not wear a pleasant expression. I turn away, a little nettled. 
What is it to him, I think, if I am happy with his brother ? 
Surely he, who has so much, can spare him the love of one little 
ewe lamb — one poor little insignificant being like me! For now 
I use no reticence, but tell myself frankly and freely that my 
heart is given up entirely to Wilfi'ed Carruthers, to do witli as 
he pleases; and I dare say my face tells plainly enough what is 
in my thoughts. He is so good and kind to me all dinner-time. 
I am so supremely happy at the sound of his voice, and the ten- 
derness of his deep eyes, that I cannot eat one morsel of the 
dainties which are put every moment on my plate, or drink the 
nectar with whichothe attendant satellites would ply me. 

“ Youth and age have both their pleasures,” whispers Wilfred. 
“ Look at Lady de Vyne — how intensely she is enjoying her din- 
ner! You have not arrived at the appreciation of the pleasures 
of a big dinner yet.” 

“ No,” I answer, in the same key, “ and I don’t want to.” 

“You see; I was right when I told you that love and roses, 
and strawberries and cream, were your siunmum bonum of the 
world’s delights,” he says, with a smile. 


MY HERO. 


67 


CHAPTER XVII. 

“ UN REVE, C’EST DOUX.” 

“ Yes, Love is ever busy with his shuttle, 

Is ever weaving into life’s dull warp 
Bright gorgeous flow’ers and scenes Arcadian; 

Hanging our gloomy prison-house about 
With tapestries that make its walls dilate 
In never-ending vistas of delight.” 

I COULD sit forever at this Olympian feast, supremely happy at 
the bare presence of my love. No doubt some insulted goddess 
■would have come to cast her apple — oh, most baleful of fruits! — 
upon the board and broken the spell of perfect bliss. I would 
not have cared to win the inscription on the “ gleaming rind,” 
so they had left me Paris; I would have owned all fairer, so they 
had yielded me the palrp for the “ most loving.” 

“ I should like,” says the soft, harmonious voice, “to lo(>k at 
life for once through your fresh young eyes, and to read in your 
heart your estimate of love. Something for which the w’orld is 
well lost ? or that can change it to a garden of Eden ? — a fancy 
for which unknown sufferings can be undergone, undreamed 
pangs welcomed ? — a theory which raises some miserable sordid 
mortal to God- worship in the heart that shrines it ? — all that and 
more, is it not, ina belle ingenue f 

“ Don’t call me that!” I say quickly, hot and vexed. 

“ Perche f ’ asks Wilfred, raising his eyebrows ever so slightly. 

“ Because it makes me think you are mocking me, I answer, 
“ and I would rather you would dislike than despise me.” 

“ I, child!” he whispers ever so softly. “ What right have I 
to despise a pure little fresh -souled creature like you! Am I 
entitled by the worldly wisdom I have gained from w^asted 
years and misspent hours, by my bitter experiences, and the 
taste of dead-sea apples in my mouth ? I envy you from the 
bottom of my soul. I would give ten years of my life for your 
simple faith and trust — only to be able to set up a god and wor- 
ship it, even if it were an unworthy one. Tell me, little one, if 
you loved, would you see flaws in your idol; or would it be one 
perfect, harmonious thing of beauty, able to make your joy for- 
ever ?” 

“ I don’t know,” I say, glancing shyly in his face as he looks 
expectant of my answer. “ I don’t think I should see any faults 
— but— but if I did, it would not alter my feelings.” 

“And if the creature you loved thwarted and slighted you, 
neglected you, and turned aside to other loves, what then i 
Would you be flerce and resentful, would you turn upon him, 
would you purchase your revenge at any cost, and choose a rival 
for him, liowever unworthy, sooner than not heap upon him 
some of the pangs he had made you suffer ?” 

“ I!” I stammer, looking aghast at him. 

“ Yes, that is the favorite weaiwn of your sex. Do you think 
you would not use it?” 

“ No,” I cry indignantly, “ I might break my heart, but I could 


68 


MY HERO, 


never, never want to hurt or wound any one I loved. I should 
think it was my own fault if he grew tired of me, and I no 
longer pleased him.” 

A pitying smile dawns upon Wilfred Carruthers’ face. 

“Poor little child!” he says, caressingly. “Some one will 
make you very miserable one day. The world will teach you 
bitter lessons; the people you love will be your direct enemies, 
and some day you will wake up from your dream of what life 
might be to find out what it is. Then you will be like me— when 
all your sympathies have been crushed, and your best hopes dis- 
appointed, you will come at last to subscribe to what Solomon 
found out some thousands of years ago, and most of his descend- 
ants have acquired a painful knowledge of since — that all is van- 
ity and vexation of spirit.” 

He looks away mournfully over my head, and as I see the sad- 
ness of his deep eyes, I feel a more profound admiration and love 
for him than ever. 

“ Love is a chimera, and happiness a delusion,” he goes on, 
presently. “ Tell me, child, have you not already in your short 
life had a great deal more pain than pleasure? I don’t suppose 
you have known any actual suffering; but confess, now, have 
there not been many more hours when you have been dull and 
vexed than when you have felt pleased and gay ? I suppose 
your greatest happiness has been dreaming your dreams about 
impossible bliss, and drawing charming little mental pictures 
about your fairy heroes ?” 

“ Oh, I think I have been very happy,” I answer, not wishing 
to contradict him, and yet feeling that I have no just cause to 

complain of life yet. ‘ ‘ I never was miserable at all until ” 

here I came to a dead lock. 

“ Until what?” 

But now that I have checked my glib tongue, I would not tell 
him for all the world. He, looking keenly at me, smiles — that 
smile of conscious power which I hate, or should, if I could 
bring my mind to hate anything about him. 

“ Until the day,” he says, “ when I came upon a poor little 
passionate white face, with tear-stained cheeks, a heaving chest, 
sobbing lips, and two tiny little hands, all clinched and stained 
with green moss. Poor little child! — empires have been lost 
with fewer tears than you shed for your fancied grief that day.” 

I feel helpless in his hands — humiliated and ashamed. Every 
moment he shows me that he is aware of my foolish unasked- 
for love, and seems to be half laughing at it. For an instant I 
long to flame up passionately at him— to declare that he is quite 
wrong in thinking it is in his power to make me either miser- 
able or happy: but a childish terror of offending him restrains 
me. 

At this moment Lady Cecil rises from the table, and wliilst I 
am in doubt, anger, tribulation, all vexedly combined, a hand 
takes mine with soH pressure. I meet the blue eyes of my 
Greek hero, all melting in tenderness, and my vexation clearf 
off like a summer mist from the hills, letting in full sunahir 
once more to my simple heart. 


MY HERO. 


69 


I should be quite content to be left alone in a corner of the 
drawing-room, pondering over my happiness; but Lady Cecil 
comes up and speaks to me. Oh! I am not one whit jealous of her 
now, with her beautiful face and beaming smiles, her shimmer- 
ing satins and cloudy lace, nor the gems with which her golden 
hair is pranked. 

A few kind graceful words spoken, she glides off, leaving me 
to the care of a stout, kind old lady, all ablaze with diamonds. 
Many questions this latter asks me, with manner and conversa- 
tion so homely and pleasant, that I lose the awe I have pre- 
viously entertained of her, from the knowledge that slie is a 
countess. I may be pardoned for forgetting what she said to me, 
and what I responded on that eventful evening; and, incSeed, I 
scarcely think the narration would add much to the brilliancy 
or effect of this simple chronicle. I know the time seems rather 
long until the gentlemen join us, and I wonder mentally how 
they can possibly drink any more after the liberal potations with 
which they have been served at dinner. When they do come in, 
Mr. CaiTuthers makes straight for the sofa on which I am sit- 
ting, and takes his place beside me. 

“Dinner was awfully long, wasn’t it?” he commences, in a 
half whisper. 

“ It did not seem long to me,” I say, blurting out the truth in 
a most unfashionable manner. 

“ Perhaps you were so well amused,” he remarks shortly. 

“ I don’t know that I was particularly amused Y I say, feeling 
the word is very inexpressive of the delicious emotions I had en- 
joyed during the feast. 

“Interested, then?” he suggests, not quite good-humoredly; 
and observing that he is gnawing his mustache, I wonder if it is 
a sign, as Wilfred says, that he is not pleased. 

“Yes,” I answer. 

“ Won’t you share your pleasure, and tell me what you found 
so entertaining ?” he asks. 

“ I — I hardly remember,” answer I, trying to think what part 
of our talk is suitable for repetition to him. “ I think it was 
about being miserable, and the world disappointing one.” 

“ A cheerful subject,” utters Mr. Carruthers, dryly; “a very 
favorite one of my brother’s. I hope you do not share his views, 
Miss Keane ? — it is a little early in life for you to have found out 
that all is vanity.” 

“Oh! no, indeed, I am very happy,” I hasten to say. 

“ So you ought to be, or it would be very unfair. I Know you 
are pretty, and I am sure you are good. You are young and 
strong, to judge from the way you danced the other night, so it 
would be very' odd if you wanted to abuse the world. I think it’s 
an awfully jolly place.” 

“ But I don’t think he meant to abuse tlie world!” I exclaim, 
hastening to take up the gauntlet for my liero; “ but— but if peo- 
ple are very clever and have great minds, tliey can’t help, I sup- 
pose, being disappointed sometimes.” 

Just a shade of bitterness comes into my listener’s eyes— it is 


70 


MY HERO. 


only a shade, for they are tlie kindest eyes in the world. Tlien 
he laughs. 

“I should like to have you for a champion,” he says; then 
gravely, “ Miss Keane, you have a very tell-tale face.” 

“I!” 

“ Yes. I was watcliing you at dinner.” 

A vexed feeling creeps over me, being very doubtful as to what 
he may have read in my face; and I am induced to wish he had 
confined his attentions to Lady Flora, 

“ I hate being watched,” I say, pettishly. 

“ Do you ? Then I am sorry I watched you.” 

“ Oh! if it amused you,” I rejoin,” rather superciliously. 

It is very odd, but I can say sharp things to this man, who is 
always kind to me, without caring if I offend him or not; and I 
don’t dare venture a word to his brother, even when he vexes me 
most. I suppose it is because one seems the life of my life, and 
I should not be very unhappy to think I was never going to see 
the other again. 

“Are you staying here to-night?” asks Mr. Carruthors pres- 
ently. 

“ Yes.” 

“ And do you return home to-morrow ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ How are you going? Excuse an impertinent question.” 

“ Lady Cecil was good enough to send for me. I — I dare say 
—she ” 

“ Because I should so like to take you on my coach. It’s 
coming over for me to-morrow ?” 

I color with pleasure. 

“Oh, how very kind of you!” I exclaim eagerly. “ I should so 
like it.” 

“ Would you really?” 

“ Oh, indeed I should.” 

“ Then we’ll manage it somehow;” and he looks so kind and 
glad. Really he is very handsome, I think. 

If I have an ambition in my life it is to ride on a drag, little 
as I ever expected it to be gratified. 

At this moment Wilfred Carruthers comes up to us. 

“Lady Cecil wants you, Vivian.” 

If ever a man’s countenance expressed “d— n it!” the elder Mr. 
Carruthers’ does at this moment. 

“ What for ?” he asks, with a shade of irritation. 

“ To ask Lady Flora to sing,” says Wilfred a little maliciously. 

His brother rises stiffly. If he does not alter the expression 
of his face before he reaches Lady Flora I should hardly think 
his request will be granted. I suppose he does, for Lady Flora 
goes to the piano and sings a very sparkling little French song. 
Mr. Carruthers stands beside her, looking politely sulky; and 
when it is over, does not ask her to sing another. She rises 
haughtily, and returns to her seat, feigning to overlook the arm 
he extends. 


MY HERO. 


71 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

A PICNIC. 

“ II est naturel a la femme de n’estimer que ce qu’elle aime, parceque 
I’impression qui la fait vibrer est la loi de son judgement; parceque son 
intelligence tree peu synthetique est inhabile a voir le vrai independam- 
ment de ce qui la touche.” 

“What made you look so pleased just now?” whispers Wil 
fred in my ear. 

“Oh!” I answer with enthusiasm, “you brother was so very 
kind — he said he would take me home to-morrow on his coach.” 

“Charming!” sneers Wilfred. “That’s the beauty of being 
rich — one can pander to the little vanities of women, and that’s 
the way straight to their hearts.” 

“ Oh! no, no!” I cry, eagerly, vexed because he is vexed. 
“ One does not love a man a bit better because he is rich, and 
can give one luxuries one is not used to.” 

“ Tu erois f’ he says, incredulously. 

“I would rather,” I exclaim, vehemently, “walk all my life 
with some ore I loved than ride in the Queen’s carriage with any 
one else.” 

Wilfred smiles compassionately. 

“Little simpleton!” he says. “You would rather trudge 
through life with the man you fancied than ride on a coach 
with the one who fancied you ? Take my word for it, child, it is 
much better to sweep by, with your prancing horses kicking up 
th9 dirt into the poor pedestrian’s eyes, than to plod along foot- 
sore and bemired on the great highway. Undergo all hardships 
for love’s sake, theoretically, if you please, ca passe le temps, but 
practically don’t turn away a chance of placing yourself well in 
the w’orld.” 

His tone is bitter, and I do not quite see the drift of his words; 
but somehow I feel pained and mortified. 

“Miss Keane,” says Lady Cecil, coming up, “we want to 
hear you sing. Will you let Mr. Carruthers take you to the 
piano ?” 

An agony of nervousness seizes me at the bare idea of singing 
before all these people; but I scarcely dare refuse to obey the 
behest of my hostess.” 

“ I — I sing so very little,” I stammer. 

“You forget we have heard you,” she says, smiling. “ Mr. 
Carruthers,” and she turns to Wilfred, “ can’t you join your per- 
suasion to mine ?” 

He rises, giving me his arm. I dare not disobey that intima- 
tion, and am led like a lamb to the slaughter. Mr. Carruthers 
the elder is still standing by the piano, still gnawing his mus- 
taclie. 

“ Are you going to sing?” he says, bending down to me. 

“ I am going to try,” I answer, trembling all over like a leaf, 
and feeling as if I should never control my fingers sufficiently to 
{jtrike a preliminary chord. 


72 MY HERO. 

“ Don’t be nervous,” he whispers kindly; “ you are sure to do 
it all right.” 

Quite sure, with him standing one side and Wilfred the other, 
particularly as I look up and catch a haughty, contemptuous 
glance from Lady Flora. I stumble through the song somehow. 
Mr. Carruthers begs for another, and presses me so urgently, 
that I am compelled to comply. Wilfred has betaken himself 
in a pet to Lady Cecil, and every now and then I see her eyes 
wandering to his brother, in a way that makes me think of the 
report my sisters mentioned of her having been in love with him 
before her marriage. 

When I have sung the second song, Vivian Carruthers takes 
me to a sofa quite at the end of the room, and seats himself by 
me. 

“Do you know,” he says in a whisper, “I never heard any 
one whose singing gave me so much pleasure as yours ?” 

I am confused, and do not know what answer to make. I 
cannot parry the compliment — the tone of it is too sincer^e, so I 
can only imagine that he knows nothing at all about the matter. 

“You won’t forget your promise to let me drive you home to- 
morrow ?” he says; and then I remember Miss Carlton. 

“ I — I came with Miss Carlton,” I reply; “ and I — perhaps ” 

(this, feeling a little dubious on the score of the proprieties). 

“Oh! I’ll settle all that,” he says. “ Miss Carlton and I are 
very old friends. And I’ll appeal to Lady Cecil if we mayn’t do 
without a chaperon that little distance.” 

Lady Cecil is coming toward us. She has a smile on her face, 
but somehow it looks a little forced, even to my unhiitiated eyes. 

“ Mr. Carruthers,” she says sweetly, “ will you be very angry 
if I take you away from Miss Keane for a moment V I want 'to 
consult you about a picnic to-morrow. We thought of going 
over to Feltham; and Lady Flora and I propose to do you the 
honor of sitting behind your team.” 

“I — I should have been charmed,” he answers, rather awk- 
wardly — “ but ” 

“Oh! pray don’t mind me,” I exclaim, eagerly, getting crim- 
son with confusion. 

“ Am I disturbing some prearranged plan?” says Lady Cecil, 
with a haughty elevation of the brows, though her lips still 
smile. 

“ I — I — the fact is,” blurts out Mr. Carruthers, “ I asked Miss 
Keane to let me drive her home to-morrow, if you and Miss 
Carlton thought it en regie."" 

“ But indeed — indeed I would much rather not!” I cry eagerly, 
horrified at the thought of offending my hostess. “ I do not care 
the least about it — pray, pray, don’t think of me.” 

“Perhaps Miss Keane will stay and join the party?” utters 
Lady Cecil, so icily that I could not have taken advantage of 
the invitation, however eagerly I might desire it. 

“ No, thank-you,” I hasten to reply; “ I — I could not possibly 
stay.” 

“Do,” urges Mr. Carruthers, with true manly want of tact; 
“ then it will be all right, and I can take you home afterward.” 


MY HERO. 


73 


“Will you come and speak to Lady Flora about it?*' says 
Lady Cecil, meaningly; and he perforce rises and accompanies 
her to the other end of the room. Then Wilfred, coming back 
to me, never once leaves my side all the rest of the evening; and 
I go to bed at last intoxicated with delight at all the sweet pleas- 
ant things he has said to me, dashed with just a shade of con- 
cern at Lady Cecil’s displeasure, as the inevitable thorn to the 
rose. 

Several of the guests are staying in the house, and we assemble 
at breakfast in the morning quite a large party. Lady Cecil is 
very gracious, and insists on my staying for the picnic — this time 
with an urgency I cannot refuse. She is all smiles and pleasant 
words. I don’t understand feminine finesse yet, so take all her 
sweetness in simple faith. 

It is quite settled, she tells me. Tlie picnic-party start at noon. 
We are to be back at the house for an unceremonious dinner at 
seven, and afterward Mr. Carruthers is to drive me home — for 
the propriety of which arrangement she will hold herself re- 
sponsible. A messenger is to b^e sent to tell them at the farm 
not to expect me before nine or ten o’clock. I am in high glee 
at the prospect of such a delightful day, and can scarcely find 
words to express my pleasure. Just before we go to dress, my 
hostess comes up to me, radiant with smiles. 

“Miss Keane,” she says, bewitchingly, “Sir Marmaduke in- 
sists on driving you to Feitham in his phaeton. He is so urgent, 
that I am ob. iged to come and press his suit, though I really feel 
quite jealous.” 

Oh! why have I such a miserable, provoking face? I would 
give the world to make it look delighted, and I feel it falling, 
falling, till it is as long as a fiddle, as Hepzibah would say, with 
her elegant terseness. Lady Cecil must see my vexation, and 
despise m^ for my gaucherie and want of courteous control; and 
Wilfred Carruthers, who is just behind her, must see it too, for 
he wears a mocking smile that makes me ten times worse. 

“ Sir Marmaduke is very kind,” I murmur. “I shall be de- 
lighted.” And then Lady Cecil says, gayly: 

“ Remember, I shall have my eye upon you. Beware of mak- 
ing yourself too charming,” and she runs off to don her elegant 
attire, and I go to my room to put on my straw hat and muslin 
fichu, with a dreai’y feeling that the brightness of the day is 
gone. 

It is not that I am disappointed about the coach, but I had so 
- hoped to be somewhere in sight of Wilfred Carruthers, where 
my poor eager ears could drink in a word from him now and 
then. In my foolish exultation at his notice, I had fancied he 
would arrange to be near me. 

Wlien I come down-stairs, the coach is at the door, with the 
four beautiful thoroughbreds pawing up the gravel. The gentle- 
men of the party are all assembled, but the ladies have not yet 
appeared. 

“ It’s too bad,’* whispers Mr. Carruthers, coming up to me 
wth clouded brow — “I had quite counted on taking you ” 

“ Yes, I’m very sorry,” I reply genuinely. 


74 


MY HERO. 


“ Never mind. I shall look forward ever so to this evening. 
It’s awfully pleasant driving these summer nights.” 

Wilfred is out on the steps, but he neither speaks to nor looks at 
me, and my chagrin deepens. Lady Cecil and Lady Flora come 
out, looking indescribably elegant in their exquisite toilets, 
and prepare, with much laughing and lively chat, to mount to 
their seats. They do not notice me, and I feel so small, and as 
if I did not belong to their set, as well-bred women have a knack 
of making those they consider mezzoceto feel when they choose. 

Lady Cecil occupies the box seat — I never saw her look so radi- 
ant or happy; and Wilfred is hovering about her with a tender 
solicitude for her comfort that goes straight to my foolish heart. 
T stand there feeling mortified, fancying too, with the innocent 
egotism of youth, that every one is thoroughly cognizant of my 
discomfiture. 

Wilfred mounts just behind Lady Cecil; Captain Carlyle on 
the other side, with Lady Flora in the middle. I think Mr. Car- 
ruthers sees how embarassed and awkward I feel, for he comes 
up and whispers to me; 

“We shall be there in an hour.” 

“Come, Carruthers,” cries Sir Marmaduke, “take your rib- 
bons and start, or we shall be all day getting off.” 

Thus apostrophized, Mr. Carruthers takes tlie reins with a kind, 
parting smile, for which I feel grateful, climbs up into his seat, 
and off fly the leaders, without a slack inch of harness between 
them and the wheelers. The barouche comes up; Lord and 
Lady Elsleigh with Miss Carlton take their seats in it; two or 
three gentlemen follow on horseback, and then Sir Marmaduke’s 
mail phaeton dashes up. I am helped in by the footman, and 
my host mounts slowly the other side. 

Fortunately for me he is a great talker, and rhe companion 
who pleases him best is a good listener; so I am quite sure of 
being agreeable to him to-day. Not for all the world could I 
originate or sustain conversation. My heart is heavy. I am 
straining my eyes along the white road for one glimpse of the 
coach which is carrying away from me all I care for. And I 
feel the whole time that I am foolish and ungrateful for the 
wonderful good luck that has befallen me. I, a poor little 
country girl, until lately leading the simplest, most rustic life, 
to be brought suddenly amongst these great fashionable people 
and noticed by them; to be the object of kind attentions from 
Mr. Carruthers, to be driving side by side with Sir Marmaduke 
Cecil, the proudest man in the county. 

Was ever such a piece of good fortune ? And was ever good 
fortune leavened with so much bitterness ? 


CLIAPTER XIX. 

THE MAN I LOVE— THE MAN WHO LOVES ME. 

“ Ahl many a shaft at random sent, 

Finds mark the archer little meant.” 

I SIT nervous and erect, anxious to hear and reply to all that 
is said to me, not for the world would I seem uncourteous to 


MY HERO. 




one who Kjls shown me so much condescension. I try to laugh 
at his stories, to be interested in his conversation, as we drive 
along the green hedge-rows and under the long elm avenues that 
shade us pleasantly from the midday sun. We turn a corner and 
come close upon the coach; the grooms have got down to alter a 
curb-chain, or something of the sort. My pulse quickens. It is 
some pleasure to be near them; but Sir Marmaduke pulls up 
short. 

“ We’ll wait for them,” he says. “ We don’t want their dust.” 

And I try to smile feebly, and say that dust is very un- 
pleasant. 

“ That’s the one thing I like London for,” says Sir Marmaduke. 
“ They water the roads — not but what they do it as badly as they 
can, so that the mud cakes on one’s new paint and ruins it. Ah, 
they manage things very differently in Paris,” etc., etc. 

Mr. Carruthers looks round, and br«>ndishes his whip at us by 
way of salutation, and off they start again. Lady Cecil s musical 
laughter ringing in the air. The drive seems long, tliough we 
go at a good pace; but we get at last to the little inn where the 
carriages put up, and dismount. Mr. Carruthers comes to help 
me out, putting both his strong arms round me and lifting me 
out like a little child. I see an impatient flash in the eyes of 
Lady Cecil, who is standing by, and wish devoutly he would de- 
vote his petits soins to her, and not give offense by looking after 
me, who don’t a bit appreciate his attentions. We have to cross 
a stile on our way to the woods; here I get the advantage of the 
fair aristocrats, for their unaccustomed limbs are stiff and awk- 
ward, while mine from frequent practice are nimble. 

“ Over like a bird!” says Mr. Carruthers, with his abominable 
want of tact, as I alight on the other side; and Lady Flora, and 
Lady Cecil, who hear him, curl their lip contemptuously. 

“ Stile vaulting is Miss Keane’s natural element,” utters Wil- 
fred, in a tone that makes me color and feel painfully small, 
while his brother retorts, sharply: 

“ Miss Keane does everything well in its turn.” 

I don’t want his championship — he is only making me odious 
m the eyes of evei*y one else, but I do feel it hard that Wilfred 
should take arms against me. 

Mr. Carruthers still lingers beside me, though the other ladies 
turn frequently to speak to him, in a manner so pointed that I 
cannot conceive why he does not go forward; they neither look 
at nor address a word to me. 

“ I wish you would go and walk with Lady Cecil,” I say at 
last, desperately. % 

“ Why ?” he asks, quickly. 

“ Because I am sure you ought to do so. She expects it, and 
— and — I can walk very well by myself.” 

He looks at me with his frank eyes, rather an indignant, hurt 
look. 

“ Do you mean in plain words that you doit’t care for my com- 
l)any ?” 

“ No,” I answer, bluntly, for I have no mauvaise honte with 


% MY MEMO. 

him. “Only you ought to be talking to them, not to a little 
nobody like me.” 

“ I suppose a woman can’t be more than pretty and sw^t- 
mannered, and a lady,” he retorts, in quick defense of me against 
myself. 

“ Yes,” I say, but not bitterly, “one can be beautiful and ele- 
gant, and splendidly dressed, and a lady of title.” 

“ Are you really so modest?” he asks, looking kindly at me, 
“or do you speak so because you al’e a little vexed ?” 

“ Vexed!” I retort, quickly, “ why should I be vexed ?” 

“I don’t know,” he answers, rather awkwardly; and at this 
juncture Lady Cecil turns round for the tenth time. 

“ Mr. Carruthers, this path is so steep, I want your arm.” 

Of course he goes forward — not with the best grace in the 
world, as there are four gentlemen with her, either of whose 
arms would be strong enough to support her. 

“ Do you think me a great bore?” I hear her whisper, as she 
looks up in his face. Oh! I am quite sure now she is in love 
with him, or she could not look so at him. 

“ Lady Cecil can never be anything but charming,” he re- 
turns, with cold politeness; and I see her bite her lips with 
mortification, and half draw her hand from his arm. 

Lady Flora is leaning on Wilfred; I am bringing up the rear, 
feeling very small, very much as if nobody wanted me. I would 
give the world to be at home, or lying solitary in the Southcote 
Woods, where I could not feel humiliated. Captain Carlyle 
turns and sees me looking, I dare say, very glum, on coming 
hack, politely offers me an arm. I decline it— it would be 
affectation for a little rustic, accustomed to clambering, to give 
lierself fine lady airs. 

We soon reach our destination, where lunch is already spread 
under a clump of trees, and are joined by the rest of the party, 
who come up at a slow pace. I am planted between Sir Marma- 
duke and Lord Elsleigh, both of whom are very polite and kind 
to me. The ladies, with the exception of Miss Carlton, take not 
the slightest notice of me, but carefully exclude me from theii 
conversation, as well-bred women know so 'vaell how to do, with- 
out making the slight too apparent. Lady Elsleigh of course 
follows suit to her daughter. 

I could almost laugh, if I were not so sensitive and mortified, 
to think of the cause of all this high dudgeon against me. I 
<tannot avoid seeing that it is on account of Mr. CaiTuthers’ 
notice of me, which I should be much happier without, and do 
not in the least value. All I want to make me supremely happy 
is an occasional kind word or glance fronf Wilfred; and he takes 
no more notice of me than if I were a thousand leagues away. 

1 look miserably in my plate of raised pie, chasing the morsels 
round and round, unable to eat for the choking sensation in my 
throat. When I do look up, I catch Mr. Carruthers’ eye, but 
never once his brother’s. Wilfred is seated next to Lady Cecil, 
and they are laughing and whispering together all lunch time. 
I wonder if she is trying to pique Mr. Carruthers; she flirts so 
openly, that it puzzles me how Sir Marmaduke can sit so pa- 


MY HERO. 


t I 


tiently, heaping his plate with dainties, and apparently uncon* 
scious of the existence of any one but himself. 

At last the alfresco meal is over, to my great relief; and the 
gentlemen of the party being permitted, or rather incited 
thereto by the ladies, light their cigars. They all ' appoint to 
meet on the same spot at five o’clock, for tea, when a fire is to 
be lighted, and a kettle boiled on sticks. Then they stroll off in 
pairs to look at the view from different spots, and presently I 
lind myself left alone with Sir Marmaduke and Lord Elsleigh, 
who are engaged in some deeply-engrossing political question. 
1 feel altogether de trop — in every one’s way, so, rising, I plunge 
into a thicket of trees a little to the left, and wander away I 
know not where, until I am well out of sight and hearing of the 
other members of the party. 

It is a solitary enough spot, with the dead leaves of many 
foregone years lying thick under the trees, and a heavy shade of 
interlaced boughs branching overhead, through which not one 
sun-ray penetrates. My heart is full of bitterness, for Wilfred 
Carruthers and Lady Cecil are strayed away together; and 
have I not read in the bitterness of his glance that he loves her ? 
Oh! what a little simpleton was 1 to dream for one instant that 
I could be the rival of such a woman as that! This, then, is a 
glimpse of the great world that looks so joyous and tempting 
to those beyond its pale — this is how the apples taste that hang 
ripe and tempting from their green boughs — these are the heart- 
aches that are gilded over by the pomp and pride of life! 

Crouched under the shelter of the big trees I sit, quite still 
and mute from very pain. In all my life I never longed so 
keenly for anything as I do this moment to be home again, 
away from all these great people, who make me feel so miser- 
able. A long time passes— a very long time, it seems to me; 
but having no watch, I cannot tell how the sands are running 
from the hour-glass. A drowsiness creeps over me; I fall 
asleep. 

When I awake, it is because some one utters my name, and I 
unclose my eyes, unconscious, for the moment, where I am. A 
kind face greets my awakening with such an eager look upon 
it as it bends over me, that I start up, scarcely comprehending 
its intensity, and overcome by a sense of confusion. 

“ Miss Keane, ’ says Vivian Carruthers, “ are you not coming 
to teaV” 


“Tea!” I echo; then recollecting myself — “Oh! yes. I— I 
think I must have fallen asleep.” 

“ I could not make up my mind to wake you for a long time,” 
he says, stretching out his hand to raise me— “you looked so 
very peaceful and happy.’' 


“ Did I ?” 1 reply, wearily; “ then it would have been kind to 
let me sleep on. 1 think one is happiest asleep.” 

“ I don’t like to hear you talk like that,” he says, kindly. 
“ Life ought to be all eouleur de rose at your age.” 

“ So it is,” I answer, with an attempt at gayety. 

“ I have been awfully Ixired all the afternoon,” he remarks. 


78 MY HERO. 

presently. “ I would have given anything to be here with 
you.” 

“ I don’t think you would have found me very good com- 
pany,” I reply, bluntly. 

“No?” interrogatively. “J think the simple presence of 
some one one likes very much is happiness,” he utters, in a low 
voice. 

“ I think the absence of those one cares for is misery, “ I blurt 
out, desperately. 

Mr. Carruthers looks at me, and I quicken my pace that he 
may not see my shifting color. 

“ Don’t be in such a hurry,” he says, in a pleading voice. 

“We must not be late for tea,” I respond, ruthlessly, hurrying 
all the more. 

The whole party is assembled when we reach the spot. I am 
the subject of more contemptuous looks, and begin to resign my- 
self to being obnoxious in every one’s eyes to-day. As we are 
all sitting tailor-fashion at our tea, Vivian Carruthers by my 
side this time, a new personage appears on the scene, in the shape 
of my old friend the gypsy. She catches sight of me at once, 
and comes up with her wheedling smile, as though I were an old 
acquaintance. 

“ Good-day to you, pretty lady,” she commences, apostro- 
phizing me, to my dire confusion. “You haven’t forgot the 
poor old gypsy, that told you your fortune for nothing, have ye 
now ?” 

I wish the earth would open and swallow me, or better still, 
her; but it remains terra firma, and I crimson painfully under 
the general gaze directed to me. 

“In the corn-fields, you know, my pretty miss, when you 
hadn’t your purse, and the old gypsy told you your fortune all 
for nothing,” persists the hag. 

Oh, dear! oh, dear! if I had the hoarded contents of my cedar 
money-box with me, 1 would give it her all to go away; but I 
haven’t a farthing. 

“ Let’s have our fortunes told,” said Mr. Carruthers, coming to 
my rescue. 

“ It’s a good fortune yours is, my noble lord, though it isn’t 
in your face, like the pretty little lady’s here,” says the horrid 
old woman, eagerly; and the gentlemen laugh, while the two 
beauties look disdainful. “ Let the old gypsy cross your hand!” 
she continues, her eyes glistening at sight of the large silver coin 
Mr. Carruthers has produced. “ You ask the young lady, my 
lord, if I didn’t tell her true. I told her she was goin’ to meet a 
grand gentleman, that ’ud take a fancy to her; and I told her 
he’d have beautiful blue eyes and light hair, though she would 
have it it was blue eyes and dark hair.” 

1 could cry with mortification; and Mr. Carruthers seeing my 
discomfiture, tries his best to avoid general attention from me. 

“ There,” he says, giving her a half crown, and holding out 
his hand, “tell me my fortune, and never mind the young 
lady’s.” 

“ Vivian,” I hear lettered in Wilfred’s languid, scornful voice, 


MY HERO. 


79 


“ how can you lend yourself to such folly ? This ignorant rant 
is not particularly entertaining.” 

“ Pray don’t interrupt the oracle,” sneers Lady Cecil. “Per- 
haps the creature will tell him something he wants to hear.” 

I see the gypsy fix her eyes wdth an indignant glitter on the 
two speakers; then she turns to Mr. Carruthers, peering atten- 
tively in his hand. 

I suppose this vagrant race of fortune tellers are w^onderfully 
(|uick observers, and have a knack of making shrewd guesses at 
what is going on around them. After a very hasty glance: 

“ You’re born to good luck, my lord,” mutters the crone; 
“and well your lordship deserves it. But there’s a cross I see 
here, and other people ’ull get the things as you "want the most, 
and won’t care about ’em.” 

“ What do I want most ?” he asks, laughing. 

The gypsy gives a knowing chuckle, and a glance all round 



“ You wants a pretty lady that isn’t a hundred miles away 
from your side; and she’s full o’ some one as isn’t fit to black 
your lordship’s shoes ” — (this with a vindictive glance at Wil- 
fred); “ and there’s a beautiful lady as is very sweet on your 
lordship, though she has tied a knot with her tongue she can’t 
untie with her teeth, and you don’t care a brass button about 
her.” And this time she directs a piercing look at Lady Cecil, 
who absolutely starts and colors. 

“ Are we to be treated to more of this rodomontade ?” 

asks Lady Flora, with a sneer. 

“ That will do— that will do!” exclaims Mr. Carruthers, hastily, 
giving her another half-crown. “ Go along, my good woman, 
we don’t want to hear any more.” 

“ Won’t the beautiful ladies have their fortunes told ?” says the 
gypsy, in her wheedling voice, going round to the other side, 
and wreathing her old brown face with fascinating smiles. 

“ Go!” utters Wilfred, peremptorily, “before I call the serv- 
ants to turn you off.”^ 

“ Going, sir, going’,” she answers, in an excited tone. “ I 
w-on’t trouble the ladies no more. Perhaps there’s something I 
could do for you when I go down south to the sea-coast next 
week. Shall I take a message to some one as is looking for 
you?” 

A sudden livid pallor comes over Wilfred’s face. Every one 
stares at him in astonishment; but in a moment he recovers 
himself, and, as the gypsy turns away with a malicious grin on 
her face, he says, in his sarcastic tones: 

“ Charming episode for our al fresco tea! It wouldn’t have 
been perfect without the kettle boiled on sticks, and the vaga- 
bond foreteller of destiny. Pray, Miss Keane, have you many 
acquaintances among the tribe ?” 

How can he be so cruey^;jHow have I ever hurt or vexed 
him, that he should pf^ me to such wanton torture ? 

Vivian jumps up quickly. 

“It’s time the horses were being put to. Are you ladies 
nearly ready ? Miss Keane, let me help you up;” and out of pure 


80 


MY HERO, 


kindness he continues to pay me marked attention, which I 
would a thousand times rather be without, and renders me more 
than ever hateful to the other women. 


' CHAPTER XX. 

THE IRONY OF FORTUNE. 

“ Who ne’er have loved and loved in vain 
Can neither feel nor pity pain. 

The cold repulse, the look askance, 

The lightning of Love’s angry glance. 

“ My wounded soul, my bleeding breast, 
Can patience preach thee into rest? 

Alas! too late, I dearly know 
That joy is harbinger of woe.” 


I AM consigned to Sir Marmaduke’s care again for the drive 
back to Lofton Park. Lady Cecil is devoting herself entirely to 
Wilfred Carruthers, leaning back in her seat to look up at him 
while he bends over her, whispering in her ear and gazing at her 
with an intensity that makes me sick at heart. What have I 
done since yesterday that he is so changed toward me? He 
cannot be vexed too because his brother notices me. He must 
know that I have not a thought in the world for any one but him. 
No, I tell myself bitterly, the reason of his coldness is at hand — 
I need not seek it far — he is really in love with Lady Cecil, 
though she is the wife of another man; and to me he is utterly, 
utterly indifferent. 

Can I not summon pride to my aid? Is it not unworthy to 
be grieving and longing after some one who cares nothing for 
me ? I can't help it. In my poor contemptible foolishness, I 
could crouch at his feet for one kind word, in spite of his 
cruelty. 

Happy am I when dinner is over, and I am equiped for the 
moonlight ride home on the drag. The gentlemen come out to 
see us off: so does Miss Carlton; the other ladies will not even 
look out of the windows at our departure, and Wilfred remains 
with them. 

Lady Cecil gives me two cold fingers at parting. I want to 
thank her for my visit, but the words die away in my throat. 
Lady Elsleigh and her daughter make me a distant bow, and 
Wilfred Carruthers rises from his lounging-chair by Lady Cecil, 
and gives me an inclination of the head. I hasten out of the 
room in an agony, lest the tears that are blinding my eyes should 
fall. At tlie door I dash them away hastily, and then I am out 
on the steps, Sir Marmaduke shaking me kindly by the hand, 
and hoping I shall soon come again. Lord Elsleigh gives me a 
hearty grasp. Captain Carlyle and the two other men help me 
up on the coach, with many pleasant words and little cares for 
my comfort. 

Mr. Carruthers mounts, and we are off at a brisk trot through 
th ’ ^ 



a heavenly night! I wish my horses were fresh, and 


MY HERO. 


81 


we had a twenty mile drive before us,” he says, looking down at 
me. “ Ar^ou quite comfortable? Do you like being up here ?” 

“Oh! it’s delightful!” I respond; and so it is, or would be, if 
my heart were not so sore. I am so high up, that I can look 
across the high hedges at the country lying bathed in moonlight, 
and we cut swiftly through the soft summer air, fragrant with 
all rich scents of ripe vegetation. • 

“ I’m afraid you haven’t had a very pleasant time of it,” he 
says, in a low voice; and I answer coldly: 

“ Indeed I have enjoyed myself extremely,” for I feel rufSed 
at the bare thought of any one guessing how intense the wretch- 
edness of that day has been. 

“Oh! have you?” he answers. “ I was afraid ” and there 

he stops. 

“ Afraid of what?” I ask, sharply. 

“Oh! I don’t know. Women are so odd,” and he turns his 
face away, and gives the near leader a flick with the whip, 
which it resents violently. Presently he pulls up into a walk. 
“It’s such a short drive,” he says. “We shall be at the farm 
in no time.” 

I begin to feel a sense of self-reproach. How good he has 
been to me! and I have made a very ungracious return hitherto. 

“ It is very kind of you to take me home,” I begin, anxious to 
make an amend. 

“ It is very pleasant to do the thing one likes best, and then 
get thanked for it,” he answers, turning co me. 

Though I do not care a bit for him, I think he has the very 
kindest, honestest eye I ever saw; and he is undeniably hand- 
some, though so unlike to my ideal. 

“ I should like always to go about on a coach,” I say, with a 
view of being conversational, and not with any ulterior motive. 

“ So should I like you to — on this one,” and his blue e 5 ^es 
glance at me ever so tenderly in the strong white light. 

My hand is lying ungloved on the big leather apron. Sud- 
denly he shifts the reins to his right hand, and takes mine in his 
left. An agony of repulsion, or something, seizes me, and I drag 
it away, gasping out: 

“ Don’t!” 

Quickly he shifts the reins back again. I see him gnawing his 
chestnut mustache, and he says, sitting bolt upright, and in the 
iciest tone: 

“ I beg you ten thousand pardons!” 

But his fit of temper, if temper it is, is soon over, and he be- 
gins to talk on ordinary subjects, so that I recover my com- 
posure without difficulty. We are in the lane leading to our 
house now. I feel sorry the drive is coming to an end, for it 
lias been very pleasant. 

“ Will you let me come and take you out again some day?” he 
asks. “ Of course with Mr. or Mrs. Keane, or your sisters. 1 
cannot hope to have you all to myself another time.” 

“ I should like it better than anything,” I answer. And then 
we drive up to the front gate, and all the family come out to 
meet us. 


82 


MY HERO. 


Mr. Carruthers insists on being introduced to every one; and 
when invited, actually dismounts and comes into the drawing- 
room. He chats to papa about some horses that are to be seen 
next week ten miles off, and proposes to drive him over to see 
them. 

“ We must prevail upon the young ladies to Come too,” he adds, 
“ and then we’ll all go afterward and lunch at the Fighting Cock 
at Ridley.” 

My sisters acquiesce with effusion. I remain silent, though he 
looks very hard at me. But I don’t want to be selfish, and think 
I have had more than my share of gayety (so-called). 

“Will you trust yourself to my coachmanship again?’' says 
Mr. Carruthers, addressing me. 

“Oh! thank you,” I stammer; “ but — but I — I have been out 
so much, and— and my sisters ” 

“ There is plenty of room for every one,” he returns, quickly, 
almost imperatively; “and I shall be quite disappointed if you 
don’t come.” 

“ Of course you will go, Doris,” says my mother, “ if Mr. Car- 
ruthers is so kind as to wish it.” And my sisters look a -little 
vexed, I can see, though they are smiling. 

When he has taken his leave, every one pounces upon me 
with a thousand questions, which I answer with the best of my 
ability. 

“How yonmust have enjoyed yourself!” chime my sisters, 
with an intensity of envy. I don’t mean unkind envy, but long- 
ing for similar good fortune. “ To have met all those grand peo- 
ple, for them to notice you; and the idea of Sir Marmaduke 
driving you himself, and then Mr. Carruthers bringing you home. 
Why, you must have been crazy with delight.” 

I could almost laugh to myself — not a glad or joyous laugh — 
to think how fortune has smiled on me, to all appearance, and 
yet frowned so with the other side of her Janus face, that I have 
lost all sight of pleasure. 

Then come a thousand more questions, as to the house, its ap- 
pointments, the rooms, decorations, dinner, servants, liv- 
eries, etc. 

“ Was Mr. Carruthers’ brother there?” asks Fanny; “ and did 
he go on as much as usual with Lady Cecil ?” 

The last feather breaks the camel’s back. 

“ I am so tired!” I exclaim, rising abruptly; “let me go to 
bed now, and I will tell you everything you want to know to- 
morrow.” 

So I betake myself to my doll’s bed; and my last feeling at 
niglit, before going to sleep, and my first on waking in the 
morning, is a bitter sense of disappointment and failure. 


MY HERO, 




CHAPTER XXI. 

EGO. 

“ But perhaps hereafter, 

When she shall learn how heartless is the world, 

A voice within her will repeat my name. 

And she will say, ‘ He was indeed my friend.’ ” 

Is the gentle reader beginning to weary of the ever recurring 
personal pronoun, and to think he has heard overmuch of the 
agonies of calf-love, that moral measels common to adolescence ? 
Simple loves of simple hearts are truly old-fashioned and tame 
in these days; the recital of legitimate pains and passions palls on 
the popular taste. If a gentle sympathy creeps into some ten- 
der heart over the narration of these childish sufferings, it will 
surely be because it knows of its own experience how sore and 
deep are the pangs that older, more world- worn folk make 
light of. 

Three days have passed since my return from Lofton Park— 
the subject of my visit has been worn threadbare, my sisters 
have asked every conceivable question, and I have answered to 
the best of my ability. They are still of opinion that I am the 
most fortunate creature in the world; that my happiness during 
my two days’ stay must have been transcendental. I do not 
care to undeceive them. 

On the afternoon of the third day, I take my way across the 
fields once more to the Southcote Woods. No thought have I 
of seeing any one there, and no desire. I only want to indulge 
a little private melancholy, a luxury not very attainable at 
home. To the big oak I wend my way, and sit calmly down 
beneath its generoub shade. No paroxysms to-day ; no tornado 
of grief; only the sense of an unfilled want in my life — the pain 
of a love thrown back upon itself. Being older and wiser, the 
attentions of a rich elder brother who is kind and handsome be- 
sides, would have gone far to compensate for the indifference of 
the object of any particular fancy — in the inconsequence of my 
misguided youth they do not fill one crevice of the chasm. 

I have only been seated a very few minutes, when footsteps 
pause close beside me, and a voice says: 

“ You have come back to your old haunts, then?” 

Wilfred’s voice, but it chafes and angers me to-day— the tone 
is one of slighting familiarity. 

Not one word do I find to answer. 

“ Did you come to look for me?” he asks, throwing himself 
beside me on the grass, smiling the smile that I hate. 

“ No,” I answer indignantly; “ I did not.” 

“ Qu’as-tu, mon enfant f he murmurs, lazily stretching out a 
hand to take mine; but I drag it away, and say coldly, in spite 
of the choking in my throat. 

“ I don’t understand French.” 

That is not true, but I am so angry that I would say anything 
for the sake of being captious and contradictory. 

PauvretteT he says smiling, it ought to be at school, then, 


MY HERO, 


U 

conning its French grammar in a pinafore, instead of wasting 
the precious time studying nature in these pretty woods. Passive 
nature won’t teach you much, chere helled 

I grow hot and cold by turns — ah! if I had but a ready wit 
and a quick tongue, that I might say something to hurt and 
Avound him. 

“ If my ignorance offends you, why don’t you leave me ?’’ I 
cry with a swelling tliroat and foolish tears in my eyes. 

So I will, if you wish it,” he returns coldly, making a move- 
ment as if to rise. 

.Oh! I can’t part with him so— the bare thought of his going 
makes me humble in a moment. 

“ I don’t mean that,” I say nervously, “ but — but — if I am so 
very stupid ” 

“Who says you are stupid, little one?” he asks in a kinder 
A'oice, taking my hand, imrepulsed this time. 

“You,” I pout. 

“ Did I ? I think not. I never say what I don’t mean. Come, 
tell me — how did you like your first glimpse of the world ?” 

“ Very much,” I falter. 

“ That’s not true, little one,” he answers, looking steadily in 
my face; “ are you such an apt scholar as to have learnt dis- 
simulation so soon? You Avere miserable nearly all the time.” 

“ Why do you say that?” I ask indignantly. 

“Because it is a fact. You see, my child, you have a very 
tell-tale face, and I have a gift of thought-reading; so, between 
the two, I arrive without much difficulty at the knowledge that 
you AA^ere miserable.” 

“If you are so clever, perhaps you know the reason,” I say 
desperately, ^ 

“Oh! yes, I know that too,” he answers. “ Do you aausIi me 
to tell you ?” 

“ Yes,” I mutter defiantly. 

“ It was because I did not take any notice of you.” 

I start to my feet crimson with anger. 

“ I may be stupid and you may think me beneath you,” I cry 
passionately, “ but you have no right to insult me.” 

And I turn to go. 

“ Doris!” 

I Avant to go, but the sound of his voice chains me to the 
spot. 

“ Well!” I utter fiercely. 

“ Come here, child, and sit down by me.” 

“No, I ivon'V^ 

“ Y"es, you will. I want to talk to you seriously.” 

I obey like a whipped spaniel. 

“ Do you think I say these things because I want to hurt you ?” 
he asks tenderly. 

“ Yes,” I answer, with candor. 

Wilfred Carruthers sighs. 

“ I told you once, a long time ago, you did not understand me,” 
he says sadly. “ Why, child, you can’t think so badly of me as 


MY HERO. 


85 


to believe I would make your very affection for me a means of 
wounding you ?” 

Oh! if I could only tell him with tmth that he flatters himself 
too much, and that I have no affection for him. Instead of that 
1 can only falter: 

“ I don’t know.’’ 

“Might it not be for your own sake?” My eyes open and 
widen involuntarily. “ I can’t do you any good, child,” he goes 
on; “if ever I marry it will be a woman with a lot of money, 
from dire necessity; and you see, if I were to hang about you, 
and engross your attention, it would only be keeping other men 
away.” 

“ I don't want other men,” I cry, passionately. 

“ Not now, perhaps; but you will some day. Why, you ought 
to think me immensely disinterested,” he continues, with a laugh, 
not quite pleasant to hear. “ Here I am throwing you into the 
arms of my own brother. Did I not keep out of his way when I 
saw he fancied you, and let him have you all to himself? You 
don’t suppose it is to my interest that he should marry, and have 
heirs, do you ? I ought to use my influence with you to lead him 
on, and tjirow him over, that he might take a pet at your sex, 
and vow eternal celibacy. Instead of that, I say, ‘ My dear 
child, here’s a splendid chance for you — better than anything 
you could have anticipated in your wildest dreams — don’t let it 
slip through your fingers. My brother has taken a fancy to you, 
which he is happily in a position to indulge. The fancy will 
probably grow. Play your cards well, and you are en train to 
make a splendid match.” 

I look steadfastly in his face while he says all this, in a flip- 
pant tone, and there comes across me a conviction that I might 
have loved something worthier than this man. 

“ If you cared for me,” I falter, my eyes full of tears, “ you 
could never advise me to — to think of any one else.” 

“ That is because you regard life and human motives from a 
selfish and sordid point of view,” he answers. “ When a mind 
becomes elevated and enlarged, it is capable of sacrifices that 
small ones do not even comprehend sufficiently to believe.” 

I cannot argue with him, of course, but he does not convince 
me. If he had said, taking my hands in his, and looking into 
my eyes, “ Child, I love you with all my heart. I cannot marry 
you, but for your sake I will leave you, that I may not make you 
unhappy,” I could have fallen on my knees and worshiped him 
for his goodness. But his tone is flippant; he speaks like a man 
who knows he is sure to have the best of the argument, and who 
simply argues for the love of it. ’ 

“ You do not love me,” I say suddenly, almost frightened at 
my own temerity. “ I do very well to amuse you when no one 
else is by. It is Lady Cecil whom you really love.” 
f: He darts a terrible glance at me; then, without one word, ris- 

ing, he leaves me. For a moment I am chained to earth aghast 
at what I have done; then, springing to my feet, I dart after 
him. I cannot part from him in -anger —oh! I feel in this mo- 
ment that I love him with all ray heart, whatever he may b* 


86 


MY HERO. 


Let him lash me with bitter words— I have no right to retort. 
He shall be tyrant, and I the humblest of his slaves. With trem- 
bling hand I grasp his arm, crying: 

“ Forgive me, I did not mean it.” 

He makes no answer. 

“ Oh! do, do forgive me!” I implore. 

“ I have nothing to forgive,” he returns, icily. Your sex 
have always the privilege of uttering insults with impunity, and 
you use your privilege freely. A man one can deal with; with 
a woman the only refuge is in silence.” 

I did not mean it,” I say, humbly. 

'‘I am glad to hear it,” he answers, coldly. “I beg your 
pardon ” — (removing my hand from his arm — “ will you permit 
me to go ?” 

How can I fight against that icy coldness ?— so I relax my hold 
on his arm, and stand in helpless misery while he strides 
haughtily away. 

“What have I done?” I murmur. And when he is out of 
sight I fling myself down in a paroxysm of tears and sobs— the 
first since my birthday. 

“What is the matter?” says a voice, tenderly; and 1 look up, 
startled to find Vivian Carruthers bending over me with anxious 
face. “ Miss Keane, pray don’t cry so.” 

I hide my face in my hands, -quite indignant at his interfer- 
ence, and furious that he should see me in this evil plight. 

“ Do tell me?— has some one hurt or angered you? Won’t you 
trust me ?” says Mr. Carruthers, eagerly. 

“There’s nothing to tell,” I answer, defiantly, trying to com- 
mand my voice; “only that I am very silly.” 

“ I’m sure you’re not; you would not cry like that for nothing. 
Don’t think me impertinent to force myself upon you at such a 
time, but if you only knew how it pains me to see you unhappy,” 
and the kind voice becomes quite tremulous. But it does not 
touch me, only makes me indignant and inclined to vent my 
anger on him, 

“ I — I thought I might come here without having people to pry 
over me,” I say bitterly. “ Of course I forgot these woods be- 
long to you; and I have no right to be here at alb” 

“ You have a right to anything and everything that belongs 
to me,” he answers, in a pained voice. “ You might give me 
more credit than to think I would wantonly intrude on private 
feelings If it had been any one but you I would have gone a 
dozen miles out of the way.” 

“ It would have been much kinder if you had,” I cry petu- 
lantly. 

“ Forgive what 1 am going to say,” he utters, with hesitation, 

“ but I just met my brother going away from this spot Has he 
anything to do with your unhappiness?” 

“ Wliat right have you to ask ?” I exclaim, fiercely. 

“ Only the right of caring very much for you,” he answers, 
humbly. “ I would give anything to make you fond of me, but 
if I can’t do that, I love you well enough to wish you to Ix' 


MY HERO. 


B7 

happy in your own way. Yon can't doubt my motives now 
Tell me, I beg of you — do you love Wilfred?” 

“It does not matter if“l love him,” I retort, bitterly; “he 
hates me. ” 

“ Hates you, child!” the hot blood flushing to his face. “ As 
if any mortal man on the face of the earth could do that!” 

“ I tell you he does.” 

“ What makes you think so ?” 

“ Because he is cruel, and says hard things to me.’' 

Mr. Carruthers utters an angry word under his breath, and I 
am smitten with sudden contrition for having spoken against 
the man I love. 

“ I don’t mean it,” I cry, quickly; “ it was my own fault — I 
was to blame, not he.” 

A pained look comes into Vivian Carruthers’ eyes. 

“ You do love him very much ?” he says, slowly, 

“You are very ungenerous,” I cry, hotly. “ What good does S 
it do you to find out my secret and humble me by telling me of 
it?’! 

“ I wish you understood me better,” he says, gravely; you 
would give me credit for something less unworthy than you do 
now.” 

“ I know you are very good and kind,” I answer penitently, 

“ and I was very ungrateful to speak as I did. But you would 
forgive me if you only knew how miserable I am.” 

And I subside into helpless tears. 

“You poor, dear little child!” he says, tenderly, “to think 
any one could have the heart to grieve you.’’ 

“ No one has done anything to grieve me,” I utter hastily, 

“ it is only my own foolishness. You see,” 1 continue, drying 
my eyes, and speaking in an apologetic tone, “ I have lived all 
my life in the country, and never known any one but my own 
father and mother, and brothers and sisters, so I don’t under- 
stand the ways of other people, and I fancy if they are not 
always quite— quite the same to me, that they are angry with 
me, and it makes me so very miserable.” 

“ Tell me, child,’' he utters, smiling rather sadly, “ would you 
be very miserable if you thought I was angry with you ?” 

1 hang my head. I cannot tell a falsehood, and I have not 
learnt the art of polite prevarication. 

“ And yet,” he says, stretching out one hand to me, a sudden 
mist of dimness growing in his kind blue eyes, “ there is noth 
mg in this world I would not do to save you an hour's pain, 
nothing in my possession I would not give in exchange for your 
love.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE FATUITY OF YOUTH. 

“ Non,” dit-elle. “ Non, je ne veux plus aimer.” 

Mais que pent la volonte de la raison contre la volonte du coeur. 

For months and months after that day I never once set eyes 
on Wilfred Carruthers. It is humiliating to confess that I still 


MY HERO. 


8S 


care for him. After his treatment of me, I ought to have ban- 
ished him from my heart forever and a day, have been ready to 
greet him with the cold smile of a cured heartache at our next 
meeting. I know that well enough. I scorn myself for being 
unable to conquer my folly, but all the same I go on pining, 
and being miserable about him throughout the long winter. 
Oh! how many and many a time I wish I had never seen him, 
or that at least I had known his brother first, and then all 
might have gone so smoothly, so well. Why — why was fate so 
perverse ? Why should I love the man who is indifferent to me 
with all my foolish heart, and care nothing for the one who 
would heap every pleasure and luxury upon me, because I have 
grown so dear to him ? 

It seems wonderful that Vivian Carruthers should go on car- 
ing for me when I am so ungracious and indifferent to him; still 
he does, and is so kind and thoughtful, that it sometimes exas- 
peiates me to think no coldness can change him. He comes very 
often to the farm, constantly making up pleasant parties and 
picnics; taking us for drives on his drag. I always sit on the 
box seat beside him— he insists on that, and I confess to enjoying 
the pleasant autumn days; liking to be with him, except when 
an uneasy sense comes now and then across me that something 
is expected of me in return for all this. If only they would not 
leave me alone with him; but they do pertinaciously, and then, 
waxing pettish and irritable, I say sharp disagreeable things to 
him. I wish he would not be so patient and good, because it fills 
me with a sense of mortified shame, and that makes me more 
petulant than ever. 

One day we drive fifteen miles to picnic in' the ruins of an old 
abbey — quite a party of us, for Mr. Carruthers, with his usual 
thoughtfulness, has provided amusement for my sisters in the 
shape of three officers from Colton. Papa is chaperon, but has 
disappeared discreetly somewhere the moment lunch is over, the 
others are beginning to pair off. As Julia and Captain Edge- 
hill are turning their backs upon us, I, springing to my feet, pre- 
pare to follow. 

“ Don’t go,” says Mr. Carruthers imploringly. 

“Why?” I know it is disagreeable, and am angry with my- 
self, but still I ask ruthlessly, with stolid voice, “ Why?” 

“ Do you hate so to be alone with me?” he asks; and I answer 
in the same blank tone: 

“Oh, no — why should I?” 

A moment’s silence, while I play an imaginary tune on the 
grass with my left hand, keeping my eyes fixed upon it as 
though seriously afraid of playing a wrong note. 

“ Doris!” I hear him utter in a troubled voice, and I look up 
fiercely, and say coloring: 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Carruthers.'^ 

He rises then without a word, putting out his hand to raise 
me; but I pretend not to see it, and scramble unassisted to my 
feet. 

On we walk in silence until we come to the broad stream 
shaded with trees that runs through the grounds formerly be- 


ilfl" HERO, 

longing to the abbey. Presently he points out the stump of an 
old tree. 

“Sit down, won’t you, Miss Keane?” 

“ I am not tired, thank you.” 

“ But do sit down, I want to talk to you.” 

“ We can talk just as well walking.”" 

“ No. we can’t — at least I can’t.” 

“ Oh, very well— if you so particularly wish it,” I respond un- 
graciously, getting more and more angry and ashamed of my- 
self, consequently more and more disagi*eeable to my long- 
suffering companion. I sit down stiffly, and he extends himself 
at my feet. 

“ Mind my dress, please,” I say, pulling it ostentatiously out 
of Ins way. 

“ I won’t hurt it;” and then there is another pause, during 
which I look straight before me, getting gradually redder and 
redder as I feel his eyes fixed intently upon my face. 

“ I wish you wouldn’t,” I say at last petulantly. 

“ What, mayn’t I have even the small satisfaction of looking 
at you ?” he answers in an injured tone. 

“ No, not like that,” I retort, snappishly. 

“ But you don’t know how I was looking, because your eyes 
were gazing straight over my head.” 

“ But one can feel,” I begin, and pause. 

“ Can one ?” he smiles; and then suddenly, seizing one of the 
hands that lie in my lap, he says so eagerly it frightens me: 

“Can one?” I wish to heaven you could feel every time I 
looked at you — every time I thought of you — every time ” 

I dart up from my seat filled with sudden terror. But in a 
moment he has pulled me down again on my seat, and I am 
pinioned there by his strong arms, while he says passionately: 

“You shall hear me!” 

His eager face is close to mine; a strange feeling of helpless 
terror overcomes me; I turn white and sick. All at once he 
releases me, and is standing beside me. 

“What a brute I am! Do pray forgive me — Miss Keane — 
Doris — do speak to me!” 

Somehow, without knowing why, I feel an increased respect 
for him— like him all the better for having frightened me a 
little. 

“ I don’t know what to say,” I respond, glancing up at him. 
“ I am rather afraid of you.” 

“Afraid! As if I would hurt a hair of your beautiful head, 
child! But you don’t understand ” 

“No, I don’t,” I retort, rather injured. 

A pause ensues, which is presently broken by Mr. Carruthers. 

“ Can’t I do anything to make you like me ?” 

“ I do like you.” 

“ But I don’t want your liking,'*^ 

“ You said like.” 

“ But I meant love.” 

“ You should say what you mean, then,” I answer, feeling 
uncomfortable, but speaking flippantly. 


90 


MY HERO. 


“ Doris,” he says in alow voice — “ let me call you Doris this 
once— you know I love you with all- my soul. Won’t you try to 
love me — won’t you tell me some way that I could make you 
love me ?” 

“ I don’t think you could,” I respond, with rueful candor, 
“ I’m sure I wmuld give anything to be fond of you — it would be 
such a splendid thing for me.” 

He utters an angry little word under his breath. 

“ For Heaven’s sake, child, don’t you talk like that! Do let 
me believe there’s one creature pure and disinterested enough 
not to value a man for what he has.” 

“ I tell you I don’t,” exclaim I wrathfully; “and if you had 
all the world it would be just the same.” 

“Ah!” he says bitterly, “ I see, then, that’s meant for the un- 
kindestcut of all; I’m such a beast, no amount of favorable ex- 
ternals could make me endurable.” 

“ I didn’t say anything of the sort,” I returned. “ You are 
very kind and good, and I am exceedingly grateful to you.” 

He makes an impatient gesture. 

“ Well, what am I to say?” querulously — “nothing pleases 
you.” 

“Say you will try to love me.” 

“ It’s no use telling stories,” I utter helplessly. “ I don’t feel 
as if I ever should.” 

“Very well,” he says, abruptly, “ then that’s settled; and so 
the less I force my distasteful presence upon you the better, I 
suppose. Don’t let me detain you any longer;” and he stalks off, 
I following in the rear, discomfited and miserable, thinking how 
wretched it is to have any one fond of you if you don’t recipro- 
cate the. feeling. 

All the long drive home he scarcely speaks to me, and is very 
sharp with the grooms, a most unusual thing for him. But just 
as we get near home, he bends down and whispers: 

“ Don’t think anything of what I said. I love you, and as long 
as you don’t hate me I shall come and see you.” 

And so he continues to come once or twice every week— some- 
times more; and now and then my sisters let fall significant re- 
marks on the subject of his frequent visits. It is rather odd, 
they hint, that he should come so often if he has no serious in- 
tentions — it is compromising me if he does not mean anything. 
I am silent, for I w’ould rather cut my tongue out than say he 
wants me, and I have refused him. Once or twice we have been 
up at his house lunching and dining. The first time he takes me 
all through the magnificent rooms and picture galleries, almost 
if not quite equal to those of Lofton Park; and when I express 
my delight and wonder, he bends down to me, whispering: 

“ If you choose they are all yours.” 

I am so foolish, so ignorant, so unambitious, that I covet none 
of these things, and they prevail not one whit in inducing me to 
care for their possessor. In the picture gallery I stop suddenly 
before a beautiful, melancholy face that seepas the very image 
of Wilfred. 

“Oh! who is that?” I ask. 


MY HERO. 


“ That’s the black sheep of the family,” he answers, rather 
sharply. “ You know there’s always one in the flock.” 

“ He doesn’t look wicked at all,” I retort — “ it is a splendid 
face. What did he do?’ 

“ I can’t exactly tell you, Miss Doris; and, besides, we ought 
not to rake up by-gones — particularly of one’s own family.” 

Mr. Carruthers is very good to our boys, lending them guns, 
and taking them out shooting. I don’t know if it is all the spoil 
of their arms, but we are inundated with game from the South- 
cote preserves. 

One bright morning, early in November, coming in from a walk, 
I betake me to the store-room, to get out something for dinner, 
before divesting myself of my walking attire. I shut the door 
and open the window, as there seems a pervading mustiness, and 
immediately the sound of Mr. Carruthers’ voice strikes on my 
ear through the open windows of the drawing-room, which are 
next. Somewhat surprised, I stop to listen, and then papa’s 
voice give utterance to something that sends the blood flying 
suddenly over my face, neck, arms, making me stand motion- 
less, jar in hand, to listen for more. I ignore the idea of any 
impropriety in listening — it is of me they are speaking — surely I 
have a right to hear. 

“It is a very delicate matter for me to commence,” I hear 
papa say; “indeed, I hardly know how to broach it. I would 
not for the world be guilty of the meanness of trying to hook a 
husband for my daughters. I am quite aware your position is 
very far above our present one, so I shall think nothing of all 
which has passed up to this time, but only say that as a man of 
honor, I hope you won’t do anything to excite hopes in my girl 
that you have no thought of fulfilling. She is but a child, you 
know; and though one is apt to make light of a child’s love ” 

Mr. Carruthers’ voice interrupts him. I strain my ear to 
catch his words. 

“ I should have spoken to you long ago, Mr. Keane,” he says; 
“ the dearest wish of my life is to make your youngest daughter 
my wife; but she does not love me, and will have nothing to do 
with me.” 

“ I — I don’t understand,” utters papa, in a perplexed tone. 

“ I have asked her to marry me a score of times, and she has 
refused.” 

“ Refused!” (in blank astonishment). And I wait to hear no 
more, but creep stealthily away to my own room. 

Mr. Carruthers leaves the house without my seeing him; and 
when papa calls me aside after dinner, and I follow him with 
trembling feet into his office, I guess what is in store for me. 


MY HERO. 


n 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A CHEERFUL TETE-A-TETE. 

Aber die Sehnsucht in meinem Herzen 
1st mit dem Morgen nur starker erwacht; 

Ewig verjungen sich meine Schmerzen, 

Qualen den Tag, und qualen die Nacht. 

Sehnsucht der Liebe schlummert nie, 

Sehnsucht der Liebe wacht spat un fruh.” 

“ Doris,” he begins, with some severity, I heard something 
this morning that surprised me very much!” — silence unbroken 
except by the loud ticking of the eight-day clock — “from Mr. 
Carruthers. I cannot doubt his word, but is it possible that 
he can have offered you such an honor and you refused it?” 

“ If I don’t love him, papa?” I utter, trembling. 

“Pshaw! what folly!” exclaims my father, taking two or 
three impatient turns up and down the room: “ what do you 
mean ?” 

“ I don’t love him, papa,” I repeat. 

“ Are you out of your senses, child?” he cries, stopping short 
in his walk, and looking impatiently at me. “ What in the 
name of Heaven do you want, if you can’t love a fine, handsome 
fellow like that, with the kindest heart in the world, and twenty 
thousand a year ?” 

“I don’t want anything” (hanging my head), “I am very 
happy as I am.” 

“ Humbug!” retorts my father, in an exasperated tone. 
“ Heaven knows I am the last man in the world to force a child 
of mine into marrying a man she couldn’t like, but this is be- 
yond all rhyme or reason. “ Why ” (with rising irritability), 
“ what have you to bring against him?” 

“ Nothing,” I respond hastily. 

“A man,” pursues papa, “of first-rate position, handsome, 
rich, and fond of you, what the deuce more d’ye want? Why, 
none of you, you least of all, could ever have dreamed of such a 
stroke of fortune happening to you; and you take a crank into 
your head, forsooth, and begin to fancy you want the moon, or 
God knows what, if this man doesn’t satisfy you,” 

Papa is getting very angry; I very frightened. 

I suppose he sees my terrified look, for he says more mildly : 

“ If he were unsuitable in age, or frightful to look at, or a bad 
man, there might be some sense in it; but you, brought up in 
the country all your life, who’ve never seen any one lit to hold 
a candle to him— why, I should have thought you’d have been 
half out of your senses at the bare idea of such a match. A mag- 
nificent place, the best society, horses and carriages, and fine 
clothes— haven’t you any of the ambitions of most girls of your 
age?” 

“ I should like them all if I loved him,” I venture timidly, 
feeling it almost indelicate to speak of love before my father. 

“ Love! pshaw!” he says angrily. “ You’ve gotyour head full 
of some romantic folly about love. I don’t think you know 


MY HERO. 


what you do want. And you ’re not likely to, if you refuse an 
opportunity like this — you’ll never get such another, I promise 
you.” 

We have more words and part. I resolve, in my heart, that I 
will rather suffer unknown persecutions than marry a man I do 
not love. And certes I stand in need of all niy resolution, for 
between my mother and sisters (my father never mentions the 
matter after that once) I have a hard time of it. 

For six weeks I am goaded nearly to madness. Even Jack, to 
whom I flee for sympathy in my distress,- is against me. 

“ I can’t make it out, child,” he says; “ there’s no sense in 
it. You know I’ve always stood up for you, but hang me if I 
can in this! I think your head must be turned with so much 
good fortune. No girl in her senses ever refused such an 
offer.” 

“ But, Jack,” I murmur tearfully, with the old refrain, “ if I 
don’t love him ?” 

“ If you don’t love him, Doris, my dear, you may depend you 
never- will anybody. Why, Carruthers is such a handsome fel- 
low —such an awfully good sort — I think if I were a woman I 
should be head over ears in love with him for himself, let alone 
what he could give me.” 

“ I wish you were a woman, then,” I say forlornly. 

“ Cissy!” cries my brother impatiently, “ you are a little fool, 
and don’t know what’s good for you. Stop!” and he looks keenly 
at me, “ have you got any one else in your head ?” 

I crimson and look away. 

“ So ho!” and he gives a long low whistle. “ I’ve hit the right 
nail on the head at last. Who’s the Adonis that makes you turn 
up your nose at Carruthers ?” 

I am silent. 

“ Come, Cis, out with it.” 

“ Jack,” I whisper desperately, “ promise me you won’t breathe 
a word to any one.” 

Why— what’s the mystery! Is it a married^ man you’re in 
love with ?” 

“ Oh! Jack, but promise me.” 

“ Well, go ahead.” 

‘ ‘ But do you promise ?” 

“ I suppose so, if you won’t tell me without.” 

“Well” — (a long and agonizing pause)— “ I know it’s very 
wrong and very silly ” 

“ Of course,” interposes my brother dryly. 

“ But,” and I am overwhelmed with shame, and hide my face 
in his arm— “ I— I do care for some one— who doesn’t care for 
me, and never will, but I canH marry anybody else.” 

“ And who is he?” asks Jack, grimly. 

“ I can’t tell you. Oh! Jack, don’t ask me.” 

“ Don’t you think,” he utters, in a voice that sounds very hard 
tome, “it’s rather small to go on fretting and pining after a 
man that don’t care two straws about you ?” 

‘ 1 know it is,” I mutter. 

“ Then, if I were you I’d try and get over it. You may tase 


NY HERO. 


my word for one thing. If you persist in tliis foolery of refusing’ 
("arruthers, there’ll come a day when you'll be pretty sorry for 
it. Why, chilli, do you know what you’re refusing?” 

“ I ought to,” I retort, pettishly. “ If I don’t, it’s not for 
want of having it dinned into my ears, morning, noon, and 
night. Southcote Park, powdered footmen, diamonds, horses, 
and carriages, grand acquaintances, and all that. And what do 
I care for them!” I cry, passionately. “ I’ve never been used to 
such grandeur, and I don’t want it, and I'd rather die than marry 
him.” 

“Cis!” says my brother, calmly, “ you are a little fool. And 
I hope you’ll find it out before it’s too late.” 

it -it * a » * 

My life becomes a weariness to me. because of the master of 
. Southcote Park. Morning, noon, and night, my sisters entreat 
and rail at me in quick alternation, until I am rapidly becoming 
a heroine in my own eyes. Left alone, one might, perhaps, in 
time forget the old love, and take up with the new; but goaded, 
urged, tormented, without ceasing, and the beloved gets a halo 
of “ dearness not his due,’’ while the vicario^isly wooing suitor 
is loathed to a most unfair and unreasonable degree. 

Well, six weeks pass, and I am miserable. Mr. Carruthers 
still comes to the farm, and his arrival is a signal to every other 
member of the family to vacate the room and leave us tete-a-tete. 
I feel bitterly indignant at being thrust unwillingly down his 
throat, and take good care to show him that these lover-like 
seances are not brought about by any will or desire of mine. 
This is the sort of way in which they go off . I take a piece of 
work and begin to stitch as if my daily bread depended upon it, 
never once raising my eyes. 

“ Awfully cold this morning,” he begins, getting up and look- 
ing out of the window. 

“ Is it?” 

“ Haven’t you been out yet ?” 

“ No.” 

“ Won’t you come out and take a turn?” (imploringly). 

“ No, thank you.” 

‘‘ Is that work so very particular?” (approaching the table). 

“ No — yes— at least not very.” 

“ Won’t it rrait until I'm gone ?” 

“ If you are going soon;” and then I feel that is a rude speech, 
and am rather ashamed, so I look up with a faint smile to make 
the amende. 

“ I hate work,” he says, enegetically. I can’t talk to people 
unless I see their eyes. I believe women only do it to aggravate 
one. Do leave off.”* 

I put my work down in my lap and look steadfastly at a 
little speck on the paper by the piano. 

‘‘That’s no better,” he says, in a complaining voice; “you 
might just as well look at your work — better.” 

I resume my stitching. 

“ Miss Doris” (in an injured tone), “ I think you are growing 
rather captious.” 


MV miRO, 93 

“Perhaps you mean stupid,” I retort. “I never was left to 
entertain visitors before. I don’t know liow to do it.” 

“I suppose they leave us out of kindness to me,” he says, 
leaning one elbow on the mantel-piece and looking into the fire. 
“ You need not be afraid I shall think my society anything but 
a penance to you, Miss Keane.” 

I feel rather sorry. 

“ Oh, it’s not a penance to me at all,” T answer, but for the 
life of me I can’t bring any warmth into my voice. Then fol- 
lows a long pause. 

“ Puss, poor puss!” and he lifts my pet cat off the rug where 
he dozes serenely, and sits down to nurse him, thinking thereby 
perhaps to propitiate me. “ Fuz ought to have a silver collar 
with a bell,” he says. “ I wish you’d let me get him one.” 

“ I don’t think he’d like it.” 

“ Ask him,” and he put Fuz into my lap and draws his own 
chair quite close. My scissors fall on the floor with a click. I 
pounce upon them that he may not have the pleasure of restoring 
them to me. 

“ What are you making?” he asks— “ slippers ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ For your father?’’ 

“No, for Jack.” 

“ I Mush you’d make me a pair.” 

“ Why, you wouldn’t be seen in them,” I say laughing — 
“there’s nothing so hideous or unbecoming.” 

“ I’ll risk that. Will you make me some ?” 

“ No, certainly not.” 

“ Why won’t you?” 

“ Because that’s the first thing girls always do when they’re 
engaged to a man,” I answer rather viciously. 

“ Do they? Ah, then” (with some bitterness) “ of course it’s 
quite out of the question.” 

He gets up, looks out of the window again, and conies back. 
“Well, I’m only boring you— I suppose I’d better go.” 

I utter a polite disclaimer. 

He stands over me wdth his eyes devouring my face, but I keep 
mine fixed on my work. 

“ Won’t you look at me?” he says plaintively at last. 

“ Oh, certainly,” and I open my eyelids wide, and look at him 
with a gaze as expressive as that of a doll with a wire in its side, 

“ Who would think a tender little thing like you could be so 
hard ?” he utters, almost as if he were speaking to himself. 

I make an impatient gesture. 

“ I’m a great fool to come worrying you so often,” he says, 
turning away and looking attentively at something on the table. 
“I only make you hate me worse. Every time I come I make 
up my mind it shall be the last, and yet I’m such an idiot I can’t 
keep away. Child” (turning suddenly upon me), “is there 
something so very repulsive about me that you can’t possibly like 
me ?” 

I fling the work down in my lap and look up with petulant 
anger. 


MY HERO, 


m 

“ Did I say you were repulsive ? I tliink you eveiytliing tliat 
is fascinating and delightful — or I ought to, for your perfections 
are dinned into my ears fifty times in the day.” 

“Who by ?” 

‘ Oh, everybody— mamma, my sisters.” A sudden inspiration 
dawns upon me. “ Why don’t you fall in love with one of them ?” 
I say. “ They’re much better looking than me, and I’m sure 
they would have you even if you were ever so repulsive.” 

A red flush crosses his face, and he looks at me half wTath- 
fully. 

“ It’s very strange how cruel the most tender-hearted woman 
can be to a man who has the misfortune to love lier. Even a 
child like you, who wouldn’t hurt a fly, can say the bitterest, 
most galling things to me. To think ” — coming ominously near, 
angry, yet half laughing — “to think I could take you up and 
crush all your little tender bones, and you dare to sit and lasli 
me with bitter Avords, as if you weren’t the least bit afraid of 
me!” 

I make a sudden move backward, upsetting Fuz out of my 
lap. 

“ It’s your own fault,” I cry desperately, “ what am I to do? 
If you’d only leave me alone" I should like you very much; but 
you won’t, and that drives me to say unkind things. You talk 
of wanting me to marry you, as if it was nothing at all. Why, 
I shouldn’t like to marry any one I was a- ery fond of — at least 
not yet aAvhile; but I’d rather die than marry some one I did not 
love.” - 

And, desperately hot and red, I jump up, push my hair back 
from my face, and rush to the piano, to give A’ent to my feelings 
in a loud and lively tune. 

“Good-bye,” he says approaching me, A^ery stiff in the back 
and wrathful about the eyes. 

I nod my head, still going on with the galop at a mad rate. 

“ Won’t you shake hands?” (coldly but with a softened voice). 

“Oh! certainly.” And I extend my hand. 

“ You look very glad to get rid of me.” 

“ Do I ?” (indifferently). “ I didn’t mean to.” 

“ Shall I come and take you to driA^e to-morroAV ?” 

“ Thank you. But I don’t knoAv if ” 

“ Are you so full of engagements?” (huffily) 

“No; but ” 

“ Well, at all events. I’ll drive around at three. You can do 
as you like about coming. Good-bye.” 

“ Good-bye;” and as the door closes I give a sigh of relief, and 
break with renewed fury into my galop. 

Mamma comes in, looking A'ery angry. 

“ Doris, I am surprised at you. You are an ill-bred girl, play- 
ing like that before Mr. Carruthers is out of the house, as if you 
Avere delighted to get rid of him.” 

I color and feel ashamed of myself. I hate to do anything 
rude; and after all he is very good to me. 


MY HERO. 


97 


• CHAPTER XXIV. 

A TEST. 

“Nay, listen unto me. 

I will speak frankly. I have never loved thee— 

I cannot love thee. This is not my fault, 

It is my destiny. Seek another wife. 

Better than 1 and fairer. 

Thou art unhappy in this hopeless passion. 

I never sought thy love; never did aught 
To make thee love me. 

Take this farewell — depart in peace.” 

One day when the enforced tete-a-tete is going one, I take a 
sudden resolution. There has been a long pause, and I exclaim 
suddenly, trembling like a leaf, and with a nervous beating in 
my throat and chest. 

“ Mr. Carruthers, do you really care for me?” 

He looks at me surprised. 

“ I must have expressed myself very badly all this time, if you 
are still in doubt on the subject.” 

“Would you” (clasping my hands painfully together)— 
“ would you do a very ^eat thing for me if 1 asked you ?” 

“ Anything in the world that man can do, except give you 
up.” 

Silence falls upon us; a sense of impotent anger fills my 
breast. 

“ Why do you want to torture me?” I cry at last fiercely, feel- 
ing I could say anything to wound him. “You know I am only 
one poor helpless creature that everybody is against, and you 
take a mean advantage of me. I was happy before I knew you 
— now I am wretched.” 

He looks at me for a moment. I can read in his eyes how bit- 
terly my words have gone home. Then he says slowly : 

“ I think I understand you at last. I shall never trouble you 
any more.” 

I feel a little frightened, dreading the wrath which awaits me 
from my family. I fall on my knees at his feet, with a childish 
idea that this form of humiliation is most calculated to mollify 
him, and he does not attempt to raise me. 

“ Indeed I don’t want to offend you or to be unkind,” I falter, 
“ but I feel I shall never love you. If you would only seem as 
if you gave me up, and leave off coming, I should be grateful to 
you all my life;” and I look up imploringly in his face. 

“ I will do as you say,” he answers, in a choked uncertain 
voice, raising me in his arms and holding me fast. “ Will you 
bid me good-bye ?” 

I know what he means, and an awful sensation comes across 
me, as if I were just sitting down in the dentist’s chair. Ho 
draws me to him, and I clinch my hands and hold my breatli, 
as one does to prevent crying out. Any satisfaction that a man 
can obtain from embracing a woman who feels like that I trust 
he enjoys. 


98 


/ 


MY HERO. 

The salutation over, I look up and catch Harry’s eye with* a 
mocking smile passing the window. Fortunately Mr. Carruth- 
ers goes at once, before I have time to vent my wrath and shame 
in bitter words. 1 feel I shall go out of my senses if Harry 
divulges what he has seen, and race out after him. 

“ Harry,” I say, dragging him into the storeroom and shutting 
the door, “ promise me faithfully you won’t tell a soul.” 

He eyes me with something between malice and disdain. 

“ Oh, what jolly humbugs you girls are!” he utters, wither' 
ingly. “There, you pretend you don’t care for the fellow, and 
I’m sure he couldn’t have been hugging you up closer if jmu 
doted on him ever so.” 

“ You don’t understand,” I say, hot to the ears with shame at 
his plain speaking. “ I couldn’t help it.” 

“Oh! my eye, couldn’t you?” he retorts, derisively; and for 
the first time in my life I come to the conclusion that my young- 
est brother is a rude, vulgar boy. “ I thought women always 
scratched and fought when they didn’t want a fellow to kiss 
them — not stand like a log. as if they liked it.” 

My fingers long to box his ears. 

“ 1 tell you, I couldn’t refuse, Harry,” I exclaim, angidly. 

“ Y'ou’/e a little humbug, miss, that’s what you are,” retorts 
my brother; “ and you’re not a bit better than the others. I re- 
member catching that Ju in the lanes, kissing Gus Larkin like 
anything; and I made a sudden hoot behind the hedge, and 
wasn’t she just frightened ? I cut away, and she never knew it 
was me; but I just spoiled her evening, and served her right 
too.” 

“ Harry” (I try coaxing now), “ won’t you believe me?” 

“ No, I won’t.” 

“ I tell you, I’m never going to see Mr. Carruthers again.” 

“ Walker!” and Harry emphasizes his vulgarity with a most 
expressive wink. “ Not till the next time, I suppose. No, Cis, 
you don’t chouse me like that.” 

“Very well,” I cry, impatient; “think what you like, but 
promise me not to tell.” 

“ Oh! I dare say,” he answers, with another wink. “ What’ll 
you give me not to split ?” 

I look round for a bribe — the spot is convenient. 

“ I’ll give you a pot of apricot jam.” 

“ It isn’t yours to give.” 

“Yes, it is. Jack gave me the apricots, and I made it my- 
self.” 

“ Then it’s sure to be beastly.” 

“ Very well— look,” and I tear the paper off and disclose the 
tempting contents. 

“ Oh!” says Harry, “ but that isn’t enough— I must have some- 
thing more.” 

“ I’m going into Colton this afternoon, and I’ll buy you a shil- 
ling’s worth of orange-drops.” 

“ All right, tlien, I promise.” 

“ But how am I to know, when you’ve eaten the jam and the 
drops, that you won’t go and tell after all ?” 


MY HERO. 


Harry is not at all offended at the dishonorable suggestion. 

“ Crook my finger never come straight T he says, that being 
considered a binding oath amongst his school-fellows; and I go 
to my room, and he consumes the jam standing, and eats his 
dinner twenty minutes afterward, with no diminution of his 
wonted robust appetite. 

Mr. Carruthers keeps his promise, and comes no more to the 
farm. Every one is amazed, and I am questioned and cross- 
questioned, but nothing is elicited from me as to the real cause 
of his prolonged absence. However, I have a hard time of it, 
and it would not be the truth if I said I do not miss him. Now 
it is too late, I remember that it w^as pleasant to have the atten- 
tions of a man whom every one considered a great personage; 
and that a drive on the box-seat of a well-appointed four-in-hand 
three times a week was a very agreeable interlude to the mo- 
notony of life at Hailing Farm. 

As the dull weeks go on, and I never see or hear a word of him 
or Wilfred, I begin to feel as if I have been rather foolish and 
obstinate, and might have liked him if I had tried. An d my 
family, who certainly treated me with some consideration wdiile 
there was a chance of my becoming mistress of Southcote Park, 
snub me, and show their contempt and displeasure so unceas- 
ingly that my life becomes a real burden. The bitterness of my 
sisters is more than I can bear, for their drives and meetings 
with the officers are put a stop to, and I believe they look upon 
me as if I had done it only to spite them. Now it is too late, I 
see my folly. , Of course I shall never have the chance of seeing 
such another man as Mr. Carruthers; shall remain all my life a 
miserable old maid, unloving, unloved, with nothing but a mem- 
ory to live on. Surely if I am to be unhappy, better to be so as 
Mrs. Carruthers of Southcote, surrounded by all the apanages ot 
wealth, dearly^oved by my husband, than poor, insignificant, 
despised, uncpred-for Doris Keane. 

One evening in the early spring, we go to a performance at the 
Colton theater. A company has come over from a large town 
some distance off, and. every night for a fortnight they are to 
give a pantomime, which has had great local success. For some 
time previous to their arrival, flaming placards have been dis- 
tributed everywhere about Colton and the neighborhood, with 
impossible pictures of impossible feats, as performed by Messrs. 
Clown, Pantaloon & Co. 

Harry comes home from time to time with wonderful accounts 
of the coming troupe, and will not be pacified until pajia has 
promised to take him. My sisters do not care about panto- 
mimes, but I am glad of any change from my present weary 
life, and when papa offers to take me I assent gladly. Fred is 
home for a week, so we go a party of four, quite prepared to 
spend a merry evening. Harry is so afraid of missing any part 
of the performance, that we arrive before the musicians are 
seated. However, we are amused by seeing the people come in. 
There are no stalls or private boxes, but all the better part of the 
company sit in the boxes or dress-circle. 

The performance commences with the pantomime; we are 


100 


MY HERO. 


liighly amused and excited (we three younger ones at least). 
Presently there is a great rustle as of a large party entering, and 
I look round, a little impatient of the interruption. 

A large space has been kept in the center of the house, near us, 
but to the left of us, and I see the intended occupants take their 
])laces. Lady Cecil, Lady Flora, Lady Mabel Lyon, and Lady de 
Vyne, theii Mr. Carruthers, Lord Levinge, Captain Carlyle, and 
Mr. Gerald Wynne. 

My attention is quite distracted from the stage now — the gro- 
tesque drolleries, the favorite airs, the exciting waltz music, 
have no more charm for me; happily I am sitting next the par- 
tition, a little in the dark, and can watch the new-comers with- 
out being much observed. I dare say it is very small, but I 
cannot help thinking with some mortification that but for my 
own foolishness I might be amongst these great folk, whom 
every one is regarding with respectful curiosity and interest. I 
have known them all, and now I don’t suppose they see me, or 
would notice me if they did. Mr. Carruthers has to pass papa, 
and shakes him very cordially by the hand; to me he gives a 
little distant bow. Why should I feel mortified and color with 
vexation ? — why should I long for him to come up and talk to 
me? — why would I give anything to have him sitting beside me 
and paying me the marked attentions of yore ? Is it not by my 
own entreaty that he shuns me ? — have I not importuned him to 
be indifferent and to leave me? Yes, that is true, and I am not 
in love with him now; but my life has been so dull and bitter, 
I long for his kindness, for being made much of by such a 
as he. 



It is part vanity, perhaps, part jealousy. A woman may give 
^ man up, may be glad to be free of his attentions, but she can 
never, unless she absolutely dislikes him, be glai to see them 
given to another when she is alone and unnoticed!% 

Mr. Carruthers is sitting by Lady Mabel, talkingAnd seeming 
pleased to listen to her. She is small and fair — quite young and 
very merry; he used to say she reminded him of me. Lady 
Cecil is entirely occupied wfith Lord Levinge — he leans over her, 
and they converse the w-hole time in wdiispers, wdthout paying 
the slighest attention to the performance. It is nearly over, 
when the door opens again, and looking up, I see Wilfred Car- 
ruthers enter. Never since the day of our cruel parting in the 
M'oods have I set my eyes on him — my heart seems to stand 
still, the painful color rushes to my faefe and neck, I hold my 
I 'reath. His brother is forgotten — I have no thought of any one 
but him; and I crouch nearer to the dark partition to watch 
him. Tliere is a gloomy look on his brow, that deepens into a 
scowd as he stands for a moment to look at Lord Levinge and 
Lady Cecil, before coming forward. He greets the rest of the 
party; she is not aw^are of his presence until he leans down to 
her. Then she turns her head carelessly, holds back two fingers 
over her shoulder to him. speaks an indifferent word, and turns 
again to Lord Levinge. A wrathful, miserable look comes into 
Wilfred’s eyes as he takes a seat behind the others. I can see a 
forced smile curl his lips, and a false glitter brighten his deep 


MY HERO, 


101 


blue eyes as he bends to speak to Lady Flora Lyon. Am I glad 
because of his discomfiture ?— does a throb of pleasurable re- 
venge quicken the pulses of my heart that he should suffer as 
he had made me suffer? Oh! no, no!— a thousand times no! I 
feel an infinitely greater tenderness springing up for him than 
I have ever known before. I crouch nearer against the wall — 
not for the world would I have him know I am a witness of his 
mortification; but I hate her! — oh! J hate her from the bottom 
of my soul for making him suffer! 

The play is over — every one makes for the door. As we de- 
scend the stone steps, I see Lord Levinge putting Lady Cecil into 
her carriage. She leans out, giving him her ungloved hand, that 
sparkles with diamonds, smiles in his eyes, whispers a word 
which he bends eagerly forward to catch. Wilfred is beside me 
—there is a glance of mingled fury and misery in his eyes. He 
does not see the poor little girl beside him, impotent to help, yet 
who would gladly take all liis suffering into her heart to save 
him from it. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

THE GLAD SPRINGTIDE. 

“ When daisies pied and violets blue. 

And lady-smocks all silver-white, 

And cuckoo buds of yellow hue, 

Do paint the meadows with delight.” 

For a week after this I am so miserable I scarcely know how 
to bear my life. The old longing to see him, only to see him, 
comes back with tenfold force. “ Just to see him— to speak to 
him once,” I murmur through my close-pressed lips, clasping my 
hands painfully, and straining my eyes out of my little window, 
as though they could pierce the woods, nay, the very walls of 
the hqpse that holds him. 

How sorely I repent having broken off communication with 
his brother; then at least I might have heard of him sometimes. 

One morning Hepzibah brings me a letter to my room. It is 
very rarely that the post-bag contains anything for me, and I 
extend an eager hand to take it. A sudden color flushes my 
cheeks, a great trembling palsies my fingers as I read the super- 
scription, written in a sti'ange hand. Hepzibah is gone again, 
but for a moment my excitement is too great to permit of my 
opening the letter. How foolish I am! as if it could by any pos- 
sible chance be from him ! — what should he have to write to me 
about ? — has he not forgotten my very existence ? Besides, it is 
a little cramped hand, and the envelope is plain — no crest, no 
monogram, as I think fashionable people use. Carefully I open 
it. There is but a line and a half of writing inside: 

“ Meet me in the old place at fotir to-morrow,'^ 

And underneath a little hieroglyph, that I make out to be W. 
O. C . — Wilfred Granville Carruthers that stands for. 

I fling myself down on the pillow^s. I toss my arms above my 
head, and such a rapture comes into my heart as I have never in 


102 


MY HERO. 


my lifetime known before. He comes to me, tlien, now she lias 
disappointed him. Tlie thought might have been bitter to some 
women, but not to me who love him. Meet me to-morrow, that 
meant to-day, of course, since it must have been written yester- 
day. Eight hours, and I shall see him — shall hear his voice! 
He must perforce be good to me, since he has bidden me meet 
him. I seem to tread on air all the morning; my old blitheness 
comes back to nie, and the miserable gloom and despondency 
that has hung upon me lately falls off like a mantle. “ Winter 
is gone, summer is here,” sing I in my heart, and full of jubi- 
lance I chirp about the house like a cheerful robin. 

Long before the cathedral clock chimes four I am in the 
woods, waiting beside the old oak and peering into the distance 
for the first glimpse of my well-beloved. He does not keep me 
long; and when I catch sight of him striding toward me, I can- 
not resist the impulse to go forward and meet him. Handsomer 
than ever he looks in his- velvet shooting-coat, with the gray 
sombrero drawn down over his eyes. 

He puts out both hands to me, and 1 give mine with a glad 
beating heart. 

“It is very good of you to come,” he murmurs, in a voice so 
tender that it makes my cup of happiness brim over. “ 1 thought 
you would.” 

Then we walk together in silence until we come to the big 
oak. 

“ It is quite warm, and the grass is dry,” he says. “ Won’t 
you sit down in the old place ? I want to talk to you, and one 
can’t talk standing or w'alking about.” 

I obey, and he flings himself down beside me. 

“ And so, child,” he commences, “ since I saw you last you 
have done a very foolish thing.” 

I blush and am silent. 

“ Is it true?” he asks, leaning toward me, and looking stead- 
fastly into my eyes. 

“ Is what true ?” I say, turning my head away. 

“That you have refused to be mistress of these woods and 
Southcote Park, and all other fair and desirable things over 
which my brother is master.” 

“ Who told you so ?” 

“ Himself.” 

There is a long pause. 

“Oh! you foolish little child,” whispers the soft voice pres- 
ently, “have you so little notion of the value of the good 
things of this world that you can lightly scorn all a man like 
Vivian can offer you?” 

“ Would you have had me take him for what he has without 
loving him ?” I ask indignantly. 

“ But he is good-looking— there is nothing repulsive about him 
— most women tell me he is charmingE 

And Wilfred emphasizes the word with a scarcely perceptible 
sneer. 

“ He is very kind and good,” I say. 

“ But that is not enough ? Kind, good, handsome, rich ? 


MY HERO, 103 

and the child is not content? Surely it is pining for the 
moon.” ^ 

“ Don’t laugh at me,” I say imploringly. 

“ Have you so many lovers, and are they so desirable,” he 
continues in the same tone, “that you toss to the wind your 
chance of a man that all the young ladies in the country are 
crazy to marry ?” 

“ No,” I say, stung to the quick, and looking steadfastly in his 
face. “ I know quite well all I can ever expect. I am an in- 
significant country girl— I have no lovers— I never expect any. 
Your brother did me a great honor in wishing to raise me, and I 
shall always be grateful to him for it. I shall be a neglected old 
maid to the end of my days, and I don’t suppose any man will 
ever notice me again.” 

^ With a hurried, passionate breathlessness I cry out my sharp 
jerked sentences. 

“ What an appalling picture!” utters Wilfred. “ And you can 
choose such a fate rather than marry a man who would heap 
every pleasure and luxury in life around you? Poor Vivian! 
how you must hate him!” 

“ I do not,” I cry indignantly. “Hike him very, very much.” 

“ Then you must love some one else very dearly, or you would 
never hesitate because your feelings only lacked a little of the 
fire that you seem to think it necessary to bestow upon a man 
you mean to marry.” 

His voice is ever so soft and carressing, but his words make 
my face burn with sudden shame, 

“ Is it so?” he whispers. 

“ Why do you ask me?” I cry fiercely. “ Yes, it is. I am a 
poor fool, only fit to be laughed at. I am like the ignorant 
savages, I give my pure gold for a bit of colored glass. I love, 
and I know my love is not valued, but despised, unasked for. 
You need not think ” (working myself to eminent passion) “ that 
because I am foolish in one way I am in all. It is not because I 
cannot help giving my love that I do not know I am pouring it out 
like water on sand, all to waste. I don’t deceive myself — you 
need not be afraid.” 

My words are gasped out, I cannot restrain them, bitterly 
ashamed though I feel at having betrayed myself.” 

“ Child!” he whispers, drawing quite near, and looking with a 
tender light in his blue eyes, “ give me th^ love — it shall not be 
wasted. I swear to prize it as the purest, most precious gift this 
world can give me.” 

Am I dreaming ? — does some strange mirage float across my 
dazzled senses?— Wilfred Carruthers asking for my love! A 
sudden mist blinds me — my breath comes quicker — I feel his 
kisses on my face, his arms round me, and I am there motion- 
less, as one paralyzed with sudden j‘oy. 

“ Tell me, darling, is it I whom you love?” 

Surely I need not be ashamed to confess it now. 

“ I want all your love, my little one,” he whispers, with a 
tenderness I scarcely comprehend as coming from him. “My 
heart has ached after it a thousand times since I last saw your 


104 


MY HERO, 


small white face; your wistful eyes have haunted me in the night 
many a time when I have been wretched and miserable.” 

“ Miserable?” 

Yes, awfully miserable. Look at me— don’t I look a century 
older since we were here together last ?” 

“What made you so?” I ask quickly, without thinking. 
“ Was it Lady Cecil ?” 

“ Lady Cecil!” he repeats scornfully, a deep red flush crossing 
his face; “ what makes you think of her?” 

I am silent, sorry to have betrayed my thought. 

“ Have you heard rumors even in your part ? Do the gaping 
clodhoppers concern themselves in my affairs?” he says, with 
sharp impatience. 

“ Oh! no, I have heard nothing,” I reply, quickly— “ it was my 
fancy.” 

“ You thought I loved a doll like that!” (scornfully )—“ a thing 
that’s not woman at all, but only a pretty peg to hang fine clothes 
upon. Grand merci ! I leave such loves as those to fellows like 
Levinge, who having no mind or soul themselves, don’t look for 
it in others.” 

That speech grates a little upon me. 

“ Don’t speak of her, child,” he continues, impatiently; “ tell 
me over and over again you love me, that you don’t care for 
anything else in the world but me, that it was really and truth 
fully for me you gave up my brother and all grand prospects in 
this world. Was it for me, little one ?” he whispers, in his low, 
passionate voice — “ for my sake that you were content to be a poor 
neglected old maid all your life, when you might have eclipsed 
Lady Cecil ?” 

And I falter “ Yes.” 

“You dear thing!” he whispers, caressingly. “ I wish I was 
more worthy of you.” And a sad, troubled look comes into his 
blue eyes, as if he meant it in real earnest. 

I laugh — it seems too absurd. More worthy of me, this hero 
of heroes — a little simple, ignorant girl like me. 

“Come,” he says, presently, “tell me what you have been 
doing all this long time since I saw you.” 

“ I have been conjugating the verb s'ennuyer,^’ I answer, smil- 
ing, and a little shy of my French; but it used to be a favorite 
saying of his. 

“ In spite of Vivian and all the picnics he used to take you, 
and the drives on his coach ?” 

“ Yes; but it was duller still when he left off coming.” 

“Ah!” exclaims Wilfred jealously; “ then you were not quite 
indifferent to him, after all?” 

“ I will tell you just how I felt,” I say with hasty frankness. 
“When he used to come I thought I would give anything for 
him only to stay away. I used to fancy myself a martyr, because 
every one wanted me to marry him, and I got quite vexed and 
angry when he asked me to try and like him. But you know 
(apologetically) our life is so very, very dull, that when he was 
really gone I could not help missing him and the pleasant par- 
ties he used to make for us.” 


MY HERO. 


105 


‘ You repented, then, and would have had him back but for 
your pride’s sake ?” asks Wilfred bitterly. “ I do not think it is 
too late yet, though people give him credit for wanting Lady 
Mabel Lyon — it used to be her sister.” 

You know it is not so,” I cry eagerly; “ you know I do not 
repent — you know ” 

“ What ?” (more softly.) 

“ I have told you,” I mutter piteously; “ why do you want to 
make me say it any more ?” 

Because I cannot hear it half often enough, my sweet; I 
would have you put your dear arms round me and say over and 
over again the same words only— ‘ Wilfred, I love you.’ ” 

“ But you know it.” 

It matters not — I cannot be satisfied unless I see yom* lips 
frame and hear your voice utter it. Come, my child, let me 
hear it once.” 

He is my master— every fiber of my heart acknowledges his 
lordship oyer me, and I obey him like a faithful spaniel, looking 
up the while with mute entreaty for his approval. 

“ Wilfred, I love you.” 

“ That’s my own sweet love. You will come again to-morrow ?” 

Ay, that will I, all the to-morrows of my life, when that dear 
voice bids me. How supreme is the happiness that fills my 
heart as I go homeward! It is just one occasional glimpse of 
paradise like this makes one reconciled to all the long weary 
painful hours and days that intervene. We have the memory of 
a sweet glad time, and what can rob us of the hope tliat once 
more in our lives it may come back to us. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

AT BAY. 

“ I would not have her 

Break her heart for a man who has none to break, 

Or wither on her stalk like some pale rose 
Deserted by the bird she thought a nightingale, 

According to the Orient tale.” 

^ Day after day we meet in the Southcote Woods— Wilfred and 
I, A great change has come over my life. To the passionate 
misery of last autumn, to the dull weariness of the winter, lias 
succeeded a fair springtime, in which all my hopes bud out — a 
time of happiness wdiich I look back on as some sweet dream 
from which one would fain never have awakened. Sometimes 
my heart smites me that I am not acting rightly in holding these 
stolen meetings — I feel I am living a life of deceit — once even I 
ventured to hint as much to him. 

He turns suddenly upon me. 

“ Can you bear to give me up, then? Do you value me less 
than the opinion of your family ?” 

“ No, no,” I cry eagerly, “ but I feel it is almost wicked to live 
acting a double part; it keeps me awake at night sometimes, I 
think of it always when I kneel down to say my prayers.” 

“Ah! child,” he utters remorsefully, “would to God I could 


lOG MY HERO. 

kneel down and say my prayers with a pure heart and conscience 
like yours!” 

“ But they are not pure,” I cry; “ in my own way, I am quite 
as wicked as — as you — it’s no merit not to do things that you’ve 
never been tempted to do. And after all, you’re not very, very 
wicked, are you ?” 

I ask the question with eager eyes, with my heart in my voice. 
I long so to think that my idol is worthy to be set up and wor- 
shiped. 

He laughs, a hard, low, bitter laugh. 

“ I never murdered any one, or stole anything. I’m afraid 
I’ve broken all the other commandments pretty freely. Yes, I 
suppose I am very wicked — you’d best not have much to do with 
me.” 

I sit watching him and feeling very miserable. 

‘‘ Go away and leave me,” he says, harshly. “ I shall con- 
taminate you. Go to your family and tell them that a sinner 
loved you dearly, and you went away and left him oppressed by 
the thought of his wickedness; and they will receive you like 
the lamb that was or might have been lost, more especially 
when they find the sinner has no gold to gild over his black- 
ness.” 

I am stupefied by this sudden outburst, which I feej I have 
not deserved or called for by any word of mine — and lately he 
has been so kind and tender, that I have almost forgotten to be 
afraid of him. 

“You are unjust and cruel,” I say, feeling hurt and indignant 
when I have time to recover from my surprise. 

“ So I am,” he says, passionately, with a sudden change of 
mood. “Oh! little one, you have been so dear to me, that I 
can't bear the thought of life without you — I ought to give you 
up and go away, but I can't.''' 

And suddenly he puts his head on my shoulder, and sobs like 
a woman. 

I am in an agony — the idea of a man crying is to me the most 
terrible thing in the world. I am at my wit’s end to know what 
to do; all I can mutter is: 

“ Oh, Wilfred! Wilfred, dear Wilfred! — pray— pray don’t!” 

It is the first time I have ever called him by his name. 

After that scene I do not see him regain for a month; but he 
writes me a line, saying: 

“ Forget me. I leave you for your own sake." 

Well, I will spare the reader a recital of my anguish of mind 
—my alternate misery, anger, bitterness, despair. 

“Good times and bad times, and all times pass over,” as 
Kingsley truly says; and a forgotten sorrow is all the better for 
being left with the grass green upon its grave. 

A month almost to the day, and there comes another letter in 
the small cramped hand— “ ilfee^ me to-morrow." This time I 
do not acquiesce at once, glad and joyful; there is indignation 
in my heart — he has used me cruelly. Am I to be like clay in 
bis hands, to be turned and molded to his every caprice? I say 
to myself, “ Better to keep away. I shall only make a new 


MY HERO. lOT 

scourge for myself.” But, after all, I go, for he is the one object 
ill life that I care to live for. 

It is nearly summer now; the corn is growing up fair and 
green, the leaves are thick upon the trees, bright with every 
shade of verdure, and my wild flowers are blossoming again. I 
will not be the first this time. It is nearly five o’clock before I 
reach our old trysting-place, and far off already I see the tall, 
lithe form moving restlesslv to and fro. Catching sight of me, 
he comes eagerly forward. 

“ 1 have tried very hard — I could not keep away any longer,” 
he says in a low voice. 

I cannot forbear reproaching him for his cruelty. 

“ Why, child,” he answers, looking at me, “ you should not 
reproach me, of all people. It was for your sake I tried to keep 
away. Do you think that the poor little weak regret you felt 
after me was to be named in the same year with the anguish of 
longing I had for you ? I have done all 1 knew,” he continues, 
passionately, to get you out of my head. I have tried to drown 
you in a perpetual whirl of excitement— in society, in revelry, 
in dissipation; and everywhere I went your little white face 
came and looked in upon me, and haunted me with wistful eyes, 
until I nearly went mad and blew my brains out, only to get rid 
of you. You had your revenge for my coldness last year, but I 
didn’t care for you then, and now — now,” he says, looking at 
me with eyes that almost terrify me, “ I would sell my soul ” 

“Oh! hush! hush!” I cry, in agony, putting my hand before 
his mouth, and half turning my head, in horror of seeing some 
awful witness to hi^ blasphemy. 

There is a witness — not near enough to hear, but who sees and 
stands motionless a moment, while my hand is still on Wilfred’s 
mouth, and his arm about me. The blood rushes crimson to my 
face, terror palsies nly limbs, and I sink down on the ground 
with a groan. 

“ What ails you, child?” cries Wilfred. 

“ Oh! what shall I do?— what shall I do ?” I gasp; and he fol- 
lows the direction of my eyes. 

“ Who is it ?” 

“Jack — my brother.” 

Wilfred says nothing, but looks dreamily at me and bites his 
lips. 

“ Well?” after a pause; and I answer: 

“ He will never let me come any more.” 

“Won’t he, by !” (with sudden passion). “And will you 

give me up tamely if he tells you to ?” 

“ No,” I say; “ never, But I must go now.” 

“ When am I to see you again? You must manage it some- 
how, child, unless you want me to blow my brains out.” 

He looks so fierce that I am half afraid of him. 

“ I shall come herev every day until I see you; and if they pre- 
vent you — you must write — do you hear ?” 

“ Yes,” I answer, trembling. I am thinking of the interview 
with Jack that is in store for me. 

“ Do you swear it ?” 


MY HERO, 




‘‘Ye — es.” 

“ Swear before we part that you will not give me up/* 

“ I will never give you up.” 

“ Swear!” 

I swear.” 

“ Good-bye, my darling,” and he holds me a moment so fast 
I cannot breathe. Then with reluctant steps I wend me througli 
tl\e moss and fern down to the gate. Jack will be waiting for 
me, I know. Yes, there he is, with an angry frown on his brow, 
leaning against the stile, and looking as I have never in my life 
seen him look before. He does not speak at first, but watches 
my shifting color sternly. 

“Jack!” I say timidly, frightened at his silence. 

“Well!” 

“ Why don’t you speak to me ?” 

“ I have nothing to say. I am going to listen; it is for you to 
speak.” 

“ Jack!” I put my hand on his arm; he shakes it off. “ What 
have I done ? why are you angry.” 

“ Who is that man?” he says, sternly. 

“ Wil — Mr. Wilfred Carruthers.” 

“ And pray how long have you been on such intimate terms 
with him ?” he asks, in a harsh voice — oh! so unlike his own. 

I am silent. 

“ How often have you met him in this place? Once ? twice ? 
six times ? twelve ? twenty times ?” 

“ I have not seen him a long time until to-day,” I falter. 

“ Wlien did you first meet him here ?” 

Oh, I don’t think any criminal ever went through such mortal 
terror before his judge as I do before Jack this moment. 

“ Last summer.” 

“ Wliat! after you met him at Whitehouse?” 

“ Before.” 

My brother, who has always loved me so dearly, looks at me 
with abhorrence. 

“ When was the first time?” Kis tone is harsher and coldei 
than ever. 

“ Oh, Jack!” I cry, “ don’t look a^t me like that. I have nof 
done anything wrong.” 

“ Has he asked you to marry him?” 

“ No;” that answer makes my crowning torture, 

“And you have met him here often?” 

“ Not — not very.” 

“ A dozen times ?” 

I hang my head. 

“ Day after day, perhaps? Look here!” he cries, with sudden 
passion, “ you have always been my favorite sister. I believed 
you a pure, little, innocent, good girl, who would have died 
rather than deceived me or your father and mother; and here 

to-day I find you— good God! I don’t know ” (his voice dies 

away). “ What! you have done nothing wrong, and I find you 
in the arms of a man who has the reputation of being the worst 
friend a pure woman can have— in his arms^ and you confess Iiq 


MY HERO, 


100 


has never spoken of marriage to you! By Heaven! he shall 
marry you; or I will horsewhip him through Colton, and he 
shall never set eyes on you again until the day of his death or 
mine. I will go after him now, this very moment, and make him 
swear to marry you, or ” 

Jack is white with passion. There is a tradition that the devil 
is very strong in the Keane blood when it is once roused; I can 
believe it. A sudden fury fills me. I no longer fear him or any 
one else, and 1 seize him by the arm like a tigeress. 

“ That you shall not, I swear!” I cry. “ You shall never 
make me so low as to force me on a man who has not asked 
for me. If you breathe a word to him, if you lay a finger on * 
him, I will go after him, I care not where, and not one of you 
shall ever set eyes on me again.” 

“ I’ll take good care of that,” he answers, furiously. 

“ You think,” I say quite coolly, for my passion is too intense 
for violence — “ you think I am a weak timid girl, to be over- 
awed and frightened and blustered at; but you don’t know me. 

I love that man with all my heart. I don’t care a bit for my life 
without him, and if you dare to speak to him — if you dare to 
force me upon him — if you dare to try and part us, I swear I 
will leave home, though you lock me up for a year, and go after 
him, if it is to the world’s en4.” 

Jack looks at me stupefied. My passion masters his; but then 
all my life is bound up in this thing that is comparatively a 
small matter to him. 

“ Doris,” he says, presently, “ are you mad?” 

“ No,” I answer, “ I am not mad, unless you drive me to it.” 

And I feel how strange are the eyes with which I am looking 
at the brother whom I used to love better than any one else in 
the world. 

“You will come home with me to my father!” he says, 
sternly, laying his grasp on my arm. 

In an instant I have torn myself free, with a strange new 
strength. 

“I will not!” I retort, with fierce defiance. “Either you 
swear now and here not to betray me, or I will never return 
home again.” 

“ What do you mean to do ?” he asks, quietly; “ are you ready 
to starve or go to the workhouse ?” 

“ I am ready to do anything in the world but to give him 
up.” 

Jack looks at me. I think he is a little frightened by my de- 
termination. 

“Cissy!” he begins in a kinder voice, “what has come to 
you? I hardly think it is you at all. The little sister that I 
loved, turned into a bold woman, who meets strange men 
secretly, without the knowledge of her family, and defies me 
like a fury, when I am only anxious for her honor and 
safety!” 

1 am a little subdued. 

“ If you had spoken kindly to me at first,” I say, “ I woqld 


110 


MY 


HERO. 


have told you all. I have done no wrong— I am not bold— you 
have no right to say so.” 

“ What can I think,” he asks bitterly, “ when I see you in the 
arms of a man who you confess has never asked you to be his 
wife ? If it had been Fan or Ju or Anna I might have felt as 
angry, but it would not have gone to my heart as it does witli 
you, that I always thought the purest, innocentest little flower 
.God ever put breath into. 

“ Jack,” I entreat, “ listen to me, and I will tell you all.” 

And with my hands clinging to his arm, while he looks 
sternly away in the distance, I tell him of my meetings with 
Wilfred from first to last. He listens in silence — his brow now 
and then deepening into a frown, or flushing a sudden red; 
and when I have finished he pauses a long time before answer- 
ing. 

“ Perhaps I was a little hard on you,” he says presently; “you 
may have done wrong out of ignorance, but I can’t forgive you 
for practicing the deceit 5mu’ve done. Why didn’t you say hon- 
estly, when they wanted you to marry Carruthers, that you 
loved this man ?” 

“ What!” I cry, with burning cheeks, “ say I was breaking my 
heart about a man who cared nothing for me ?” 

“ Liook you here, Cis!” says Jack, “ the man you refused is an 
honorable gentleman, and this fallow’s no better than a scamp. 
Hold your tongue until I’ve finished. Vivian Cairuthers comes 
straight, as soon as he cares for you, and asks to marry you. 
Did he meet you sneaking in the woods ?— did he kiss and fondle 
you over, and pretend to love you, and all the time never breathe 
anything of wanting you honorably? And for a whole year 
what has this other fellow been doing ? Trying to deceive — 
don’t interrupt me, child, you don’t understand these things — 
trying to cozen and deceive an innocent young girl, only too 
easy a prey for a blackguard like him. Why, you poor little 
ignorant simpleton, you don’t know what men are — God forbid 
you should! Don’t you believe I have your interest at heart? 
Don’t you believe I care more for you than this fellow, who, by 
your own confession, has played fast and loose with you evtir 
since you knew him ? Why, child, I could tell you fifty stories 
about the man, only I wouldn’t sully your innocent ears.” 

“You may say what you like,” I break out fiercely. “ I don’t 
believe a word of it, and if it was all true, I ” (with a great gasp) 
— “ I should only love him the better.” 

“ Very well,” retorts Jack, angrily. “ Then I wash my hands 
of you. But I shall see to it, for the honor of the family that 
some steps are taken to prevent you making a fool of yourself, 
or bringing disgrace upon us.” 

“You wrong us both,” I exclaim, proudly; “he has never 
breathed a word to me that papa and mamma, and all of you 
might not have heard. Why can’t we love each other, even if 
neither of us wants to many.” 

Jack looks pityingly at me. 

“ You poor romantic little goose!” he says, in a tone that 
Irritates me by its intense superiority; “do you think that 


MY HERO, 


111 


roue of five-and-tliirty feels the same as you do — do you think 
— there! there ” — he breaks off impetuously — “ it’s no use our 
discussing it — you don’t understand me. But once for all, Cis, 
you must either give him up, or let me speak to him.” 

“ I will do neither,” I cry, waxing fierce again. 

“ If I say nothing at home, will you give me your word not to 
see him for a week ?” 

I hesitate; but the bribe of his silence is so tempting, I dare 
not refuse it altogether. 

“ What do you mean to do in a week ?” I ask, suspiciously. 

“ Never mind. Do you promise ?” 

“ On one condition.” 

“Well?” 

“ That you neither speak nor write to him about me.” 

It is Jack’s turn to hesitate. 

“ Very well,” he answers at last, with a gulp, “ I promise.” 

“ Then I do too.” 

“ We’d better be going home,” he says; and turning, we wend 
our way silently homeward. 

In the middle of the first field I stop. 

“ Jack,” I say, plaintively, “give me a kiss, and be friends.” 

“ No,” he answers curtly; “ don’t ask me. I have loved you 
better than all the rest of them put together, Cis, and you've de- 
ceived me. You’ll never be the same to me again — never.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

THE GYPSY AGAIN. 

“ Les femmes ne peuvent repondre de ce qu’elles feront, parce qu’elles 
n’en savent rien elles-memes. De tres bonne foi elles disent: ‘ Je ferai 
cela.’ Et dans le moment elles le feraient; mais le moment passe, c’est 
autre chose.” 

To-day is the first of July, and on the tw'entieth, my birth- 
day, I am to be married to Wilfred Carruthers. I hardly know 
how everything has come about — there seems a haze over my 
brain. I only know that I am supremely, unutterably happy. 
It is just a little painful to me to write down what happened be- 
tween the time that Jack knew of my love for Wilfred and to- 
day, that I am liis promised wife. I feel it might seem as if I 
had been forced upon him, because, for modesty’s sake, I dare 
not say how much I belive he loves me. 

For a week I was in a state of terrible uncertainty about what 
Jack meant to do; something painful and miserable I felt sure 
was coming, though I scarcely knew what to dread. 

A passionate letter arrived from Wilfred, urging me to meet 
him; but I dared not break my promise to Jack. Days of silence 
and suspense follow, and then one afternoon, as I am sitting by 
my window, I hear a crunching of the gravel underneath, and 
looking down, see Wilfred coming up the path to the front door. 
A sudden heat and faintness seize me, a terror that some dread- 
ful consequence will ensue from this rashness. We shall be 
parted forever. I almost hold my breath as he rings the bell and 
asks for Miss Doris Keane. Hastily I smooth my hair, and tie a 


112 


MY HERO. 


knot of blue ribbon into it. for, frightened as I am, the feminine 
desire to bo pleasing in the eyes of my beloved still clings to me. 
As good fortune will have it, there is no one at home but me. 
l\Iy sisters are in Colton; mamma has gone to visit a sick 
woman; Hepzibah comes to my room with a grim and sullen 
visage. 

“ There’s a gentleman down-stairs, miss, as asked for you. I 
was a good mind not to let him in with your pa an’ ma out; but 
in he walks, as if he was master, for all I looked as if he had no 
business here.” 

“ It’s all right,” I say, hurriedly, feeling very much ashamed 
at my grand and haughty lover being received so cavalierly by 
our sour-faced domestic. 

“ I don’t know about its being all right,” she responds, 
tartly. 

But I brush past her, and in a moment my trembling fingers 
are on the lock of the drawing-room door, and my heart beats so 
that I am nearly choked. 

“ My darling!” 

And there are no more words between us for a long time. 
When I can look at him, I see there is a hunted, wild look in his 
eyes, as though he has suffered. 

“ Ilaveyou been ill?” I ask, anxiously. 

“ Put your hand here, child!” he raises it to his temples, which 
are throbbing and beating painfully. “ I have been nearly mad 
since I saw you.” 

The tears spring uj) in my eyes. 

“And you?” he asks, “have you suffered? I don’t think 
women feel very much.” 

A weary remembrance comes over me of all that I have en- 
dured for his sake. It oppresses me so that I feel it impossible 
to speak of it — words are so thin and poor — I only say: 

“ How is it you come to see me here?” 

“ Don’t you know? Have you heard nothing ?” he asked, sur- 
judsed. 

“No.” 

“ Not from your brother?” 

“ No.” 

“ Did he not tell you the steps he had taken for your security?” 

And there is the shadow of a sneer upon Wilfred’s curved 
lips. 

“ No — what do you mean?” 

“ I moan that he went to my brother — odd that he should not 
have come to me first ” 

A deep sense of humiliation steals over me. I hang my head 
that ho may not see the shame that dyes my cheeks. 

“And my brother,” pursues Wilfred, “treats me to a very 
pretty tirade, that would have been quite appropriate to a prac- 
ticed seducer of innocence, but a little overshot the mark in my 
case. Finally, he insists that the only course left is for me to 
marry you; and thinking I require a bribe, offers me a very largo 
addition to my present income. And here I am.” 

Wounded to the quick, I stand before him. There is some- 


3IY HERO. 


113 


thing in his tone that makes me feel as though I had known and 
been a party to forcing myself upon him. For the moment I 
hate Jack and Vivian Carruthers for what they have done. 

“It was very good of our brothers,” I say, proudly, drawing 
away my hand, “ to settle everything for us; but they miglit 
have waited until they were sure of the consent of the parties. 
I for one refuse to be given away against my will.” 

Wilfred looks at me in astonishment. 

“ What do you mean, child ?” 

“ I mean,” cry I, passionately, “ that you suspect me of being 
in the scheme to marry you — that you think I have so little self- 
respect, that I would consent to be thrust upon a man who, of 
his own free will, would never have asked me; but you are quite 
wrong. Nothing would induce me to marry you.” 

“ Why, child,” he utters bewildered — “ what can you mean ? — 
don't you believe I love you ? — don’t you believe that the dearest 
wish of my heart is to have you for my wife ?” 

“No, I don’t,” 1 retort bitterly — “I think you have played 
with me all along, and — and I never wanted or expected you to 
marry me; and if I had known what Jack was going to do, I 
would rather have promised him never to see you again. He 
liiis degraded me, and it is very cruel and wicked of him.” 

“Oh! you silly child!” says my hero, taking my hands with 
gentle force, and drawing me toward him; “how little you un- 
derstand me! If ever I had a scruple or a doubt, it was all for 
your sake. Only tell me you love me so dearly that my love 
could make a world of itself for you; only say you are content 
to take me, even if I were steeped in wickedness, and you know 
I should one day bring misery upon you, and I will devote all my 
life to making you happy. I will try and change my very nat- 
ure for your sake. I must have you, child!” he finishes, with 
sudden passion — “ I cannot bear my life without you.” 

And so, after long talking, it is settled that we shall be mar- 
ried. Finally my father’s consent is obtained, and every one of 
the family is very much taken by surprise. They do not like the 
idea of my being married off in a hurry, nor of having a very 
quiet wedding; iDuton both of these points Wilfred insists, and 
people seldom think of offering much opposition to his will. 

We are to be married on my eighteenth birthday, and to go 
abroad at once after the wedding. I am quite happy and con- 
tent that everything shall be ordained by him; but the rest of 
my family are by no means equally satisfied. They don’t like 
him in their hearts, I can see plainly — they are afraid of his 
haughty manner, and the air of distant, almost exaggerated 
courtesy with which he treats them. Fred and Harry detest 
him — rush out of the house the moment he enters. As for Jack, 
lie has never once set foot in the place since my engagement. 

All this makes me uncomfortable, but I console myself by 
thinking that if everything went smoothly, my happiness would 
be so great that there would be danger of its being taken from 
me. And Wilfred comes very rarely— never when he can get 
me to meet him in the woods, or elsewhere. He does not mock 
or sneer at me now, but seems to be possessed by a feverish 


114 


MY HERO. 


fondness for me, and a dread of having me out of his sight. He 
has a strange caprice for making me tell him perpetually that I 
love him, and that whatever might happen, whatever people 
might tell me of him, could never change my feelings. I can 
say that with all truth and sincerity, my heart is so bound up in 
him, I feel nothing could alter it. 

It only wants a week to our wedding-day — we have sat to- 
gether all the bright summer afternoon beneath our non- talking 
oak. 1 no longer rail at its deafness and dumbness — we have so 
much to say, Wilfred and I, albeit we are not careful to avoid 
tautology; and what lovers would brook an audience to their 
sweet folly ? 

The dusky twilight is stealing on. We have said a hundred 
times that it is late, and that we must be gone, and yet, hating 
for that sweet present to grow into a past, we have lingered, 
wishing each other a thousand good-byes, and so prolonging the 
dearest moments of the day — dearest for the sting of pain throb- 
bing through the pleasure. We have parted, but turning our 
heads for a last glance, have paused irresolute, and finally come 
back to say the word we love and hate yet again. Finally, 
Wilfred has brought me through the fields of corn that are 
yellowing once more, to the stile near our house, and with 
lingering hands we have repeated the more ceremonious and de- 
corous farewell that it behooves us to take now, as we are within 
range of the windows of Hailing Farm. 

Another moment, and I am watching his retreating figure, 
longing for him to turn once more and look at me. 1 am lean- 
ing over the stile, conscious only of one presence— the evening 
may be ever so fair, the sunset as golden-red, the wild flowers 
as bright, the scent from the hedge-rows as sweet— they but go 
to make the unnoticed frame of my picture. I lean my head on 
my hand in soft reverie, unmindful of all but my sweet thoughts, 
Avhen a voice breaks upon my ear, making me start and color 
with uneasy surprise. 

“ Tell your lucky fortune, my pretty miss— tell your fortune. 
You’ll believe the old gypsy now, as told you true before.” 

A startled, uncomfortable feeling comes across me; I turn to 
move toward the house. 

“ Thank you, I don’t want my fortune told,” I say civilly, 
having a kind of absurd supei'stitious fear of her. “ I know 
it.” 


“ Do you, my pretty miss?” she says quickly. “ Not so well, 
I doubt, but the old gypsy could tell you something more. Let 
me cross your hand, my dear, like your handsome sweetheart 
did m the woods. Ah, didn’t I tell you now what a grand lover 
you’d get!” 

It is very foolish of me to feel nettled at her silly talk; more 
foolish still to answer her, but I say quickly; 

“ That gentleman is nothing at all to me; you were quite 
wrong.” 

“ Who is, then?” retorts the crone, hastily, “ not the other one 
■ not the proud, dark-faoed one with the bad smile, as wanted 


MY HEW. iir, 

to turn the poor gypsy off !— not him as you said good-bye to at 
the stile just now!” 

I am annoyed with myself for having condesended to parley 
with her; more annoyed still that I have no money to send her 
about her business with; for of course I don’t carry a purse — 
what should one want with money in the woods and corn-fields ? 
I take refuge in silence, quickening my pace toward the garden 
gate, but she keeps up with me. 

“They tell’d me, pretty lady, you was a-goin’ to marry tlie 
grand gentleman up at the park,” she says, “ and I think ” 

“Oh, that’s how you get your information, and pretend to 
know it all of yourself, is it?” 

I open the gate, and as I shut it, say : 

“Well, then, if there is anything in your art, you ought to 
have known they told you wrong.” 

And with that parting shaft, for I am annoyed at her imperti- 
nent persistence, I turn away. 

“Don’t you have nothing to do with that other one, miss — 
don’t you, now!” 

I hear her crying after me, and angry, ruffled, I run into the 
Ijouse, more put out than I care to confess about such a trifle. 

My sisters have had the entire management of my trousseau — 
it has given them a deal of pleasant occupation, which I, being 
so supremely happy, have not begrudged them. They are bit- 
terly vexed that I am to be married so quietly in our little village 
church, with no one but our own family present. I think they 
M’ould have liked a choral service in Coltol Cathedral, graced by 
the presence of all the neighboring grandees, and are rather in- 
clined to hint that Wilfred’s desire for such strict privacy looks 
as if he was ashamed of me. It does gall me when they now and 
then seem to throw doubts on his love for me. Mamma has told 
me that Mr. Carruthers will give his brother two thousand a 
year from the day he becomes my husband; and that very gen- 
erosity makes me feel bitter, for it gives my sisters occasion to 
utter small sneers about disinterested love. 

Once or twice I have seen Vivian Carruthers; his manner has 
been very kind and cold — he seems quite to have forgotten there 
has been anything between us more than friendship. I wonder 
a little that he has consented to be present at the wedding; but 
I rejoice heartily all the same, because it is a crtain proof that 
he no longer entertains any strong feelings toward me. I do not 
know now, as I do afterward, that he refused to come, sternly 
and point-blank; that he promised himself to go away, and not 
even know the day on which I am to become his brother’s wife; 
but that Wilfred has so strongly urged his presence, has asked 
him for my sake to come, that it may give no occasion for the 
world to talk, that he is at last prevailed upon. 

I only know that my love says to me: 

“ Why, child, having loved you as I do, I would sooner cut 
piy throat than see you given to another man.” 

And that speech makes me supremely happy. 


116 


MY HERO. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

ON THE THRESHOLD. 

“ I c.annot see wbat pleasures 
Or what pains were; 

What pale new loves and treasures 
New years will bear: 

What beam will fall, What shower, 

What grief or joy for dower.” 

My birthday and my wedding-day have come. I am filled 
with a tremulous excitement — a sense of fear at my own happi- 
ness, and I long intensely for the moment when the priest shall 
join our hands and pronounce us man and wife — until then I 
shall never lose the terror of something happening to rob me of 
my love. 

Oh, Wilfred, my darling, if I were to lose you! whispers a sud- 
den voice in my heart, I — oh, no, no, that anguish is too hor- 
rible even to dream — a merciful God would not visit such unut- 
terable misery on an innocent creature, whose greatest crime is 
its intense love; and when a remembrance steals ov^er me of the 
cruel partings that Heaven has looked down upon, 1 cry to my- 
self, “ Oh! their love was not like mine.” 

I have hardly slept; there is a wild brightness in my eyes as I 
cast a look in the glass, keenly anxious to look my very, very 
best on this day that is to make me his. 

“ In five hours,” I say half aloud, speaking to my own reflec- 
tion in the mirror— “ in five hours you will be Doris Carruthers. 
Doris Carruthers, Doris Carruthers!” I murmur softly. It 
seems to me 

“ The sweetest name that ever love 
Grew weary of.” 

The house is astir; already there is a running to and fro. My 
mother comes in and kisses me more tenderly than I think she 
ever did before. Then my sisters appear one by one, and have 
much to say concerning my toilet and my appearance, their 
dresses, and the shame of there being no witnesses but a few 
gaping rustics to the imposing spectacle. It is all one to me 
whether I am married in Westminster Abbey in the presence of 
royalty, or in the poorest little church in the land, so long as 
there is^a clergyman to join my hand to Wilfred’s and my father 
to give ine to him. I hope I am not ungrateful, I love papa and 
mamma dearly, my sisters in a way, tijs boys, and oh! Jack best 
of ail, in spite of the shadow that has fallen between us; but all 
the affection I feel for them is only the merest feather weight 
compared with that gi-eat heart-filling love I have for my hus- 
band that is to be to-day. 

“How white you are!” says Anna; “ do for goodness’ sake rub 
your cheeks and try to get a little color into them;” and she goes 
off to get a coarse towel for the purpose. 

I wish we had a little rouge,’' murmurs Fanny, regreffully- 
\Mio has taken upon herself the office of chief tire-woman. 

“ There is some in that old dressing-case, that used to be 


MY HERO. 


117 


Grandmamma Keane’s,” sa 5 '^s Julia; and I believe they would 
really paint my face, if I did not put the most resolute veto 
upon such a horrible proceeding. They want to braid my hair 
elaborately, but I am too restless to sit patiently under such a 
tedious operation; so when they have made one or two futile 
efforts, I jump up, drag it all down, twisting it up in my own 
simple fashion, which, for all they declare me a perfect fright, 
suits mC; I know, ten times better than anything else. While 
they fasten my dress, adjust my wreath and veil, I am in a 
perfect fever — I feel a wild desire to run up and down, to do 
anything but stand quiet. Will the time never come ? 

At last it is twenty minutes past eleven — we are to be in the 
church by half past, and I am led out for every one to look at. 
Trembling like a leaf, I stand, my color coming and going rap- 
idly, whilst all the household inspect me, prepared to rush out 
immediately afterward to the church, to witness the ceremony, 
that is so unusual an event there. No one of higher grade than 
a farmer’s daughter has been married in Hailing Church these 
twenty years, and every one for a couple of miles round comes 
to see the show. Even with all these the church is by no means 
full; and J think my sisters feel their white grenadine dresses 
and wreaths of forget-me-nots thrown away upon such a com ■ 
pany. However, I am quite sure they would not create more in- 
tense admiration or food for conversation amongst a more gen- 
teel assembly than they do here. There has been some talk be- 
tween Fanny and Julia of having children to strew my path with 
flowers, but they have abandoned the idea as impracticable, 
owing to a probable want of uniformity in the ofliciators’ cos- 
tumes, and an undoubted tendency to stand and gape, instead of 
minding the business of the moment. 

Just before I am going to get into the carriage, Jack lifts my 
veil and gives me one of his own hearty kisses. 

‘ ‘ Let by-gone be by-gones. Cissy, ” he whispers. / ‘ God bless 
you, my dear!” And I am so touched that but for a great 
effort I think the tears would force themselves down my cheeks. 

The only reply possible for me is a fervent grasp of the hand, 
a clinging kiss. 

“ Come, Doris!” calls my father; and, very sick and nervous, I 
ascend the carriage steps, slipping on the first, grazing myself, 
and nearly tumbling prone into the bottom of the antediluvian 
vehicle. 

In five minutes we are at the church; and as 1 alight there is 
quite a small crowd lining the path to the door. I am too 
nervous to look at any one, but leaning on papa’s arm, go in at 
the door and up the aisle to the altar. Wilfred is not there yet, 
nor his brother. I feel a little tremulous, and hope wuth an 
agonized intensity that he will be in time. Oh! if anything 
should happen to«detain him, and it should strike twelve before 
Mr. Newton had time to marry us, what should I do ? To go 
over all this again, to have another such a twenty-four hours — 1 
could not endure it. 

I try to look composed, and not to tremble so. I take hold of 
the railings to steady myself. Every one is nervous and fidgety, 


118 


MY HERO, 


artd keeps looking at the door, listening for the sound of wheels, 
and every one is trying not to seem at all anxious. 

It wants a quarter to twelve — he has not come — I cannot re- 
frain from saying to myself : 

“ How cruel of him to make me suffer these tortures! — oh^ 
when will he come, wheu will he come!” 

Ten minutes to twelve, there is a rustle— I catch the sound of 
hoofs coming rapidly — the clergyman is at the altar; we place 
ourselves ready to begin the second the bridegroom arrives — 
there will yet be time to gabble the first part over. I look down 
on the ground — I dare not glance round for Wilfred, though I 
hear his hasty steps coming up the aisle. 

Another moment, I hear a voice say to papa: 

“ For God's sake get these people out of the way!” 

I feel a hand seize mine, and drag me away into the vestry — 
when I can look up, I am alone there with Vivian Carruthers. 
Speechless, with wide-open eyes and parted mouth, I stand star- 
ing at him. Speechless he too stands before me. No words will 
come through my choking throat, though my lips move. Why 
should I ask a question ?— do I not know that the fiat is gone 
forth, and that my hope is dead ? 

“Don’t look like that, child,” cries Vivian, coming nearer. 
“ My God! liow shall I tell her ?” 

At the sound of his voice I draw myself erect and say in a 
strange, quiet voice: 

“ You need not be afraid. What! is he dead?” 

“ No,” he groans. “ My poor child! Stay, let me go for your 
mother.” 

“No,” I cry, grasping his arm. “Tell me quick — don’t you 
see I am quite calm.” 

“ He is married already, d — n him!” mutters Vivian between 
his teeth. 

An icy coldness creeps over me — a sudden shiver from head to 
foot. He stands looking at me with miserable, angry, compas- 
sionate eyes. 

“Go,” I say in a voice that does not seem like mine,’ “and 
send all those people away — every one of them, and don’t let 
any one come in here.” 

And without a word he obeys me. 

There is one little chair in the vestry. I sit down upon it and 
look round me^ — I can see it now. , A tiny whitewashed octag- 
onal room, with a deal cupboard, a few old hymn-books, a sur- 
plice hanging from a peg on the wall. A strange feeling of 
being some one else takes me. I am suffering — only I seem 
turned to stone. 

“ Married!” I hear my voice say — “ married, Wilfred married — 
Doris Carruthers— Doris Keane— yes, Doris B^ane always now.” 
I take up the thick white silk between my fingers, and look at 
my lace veil. “ No wedding after all,” says the strange voice 
that issues through ray lips. Am I going mad ? Why don't I 
feel some anguish or grief !— why don’t I burst into bitter crying 
^why do I only feel stone cold, stone dead! The little door opens 


MY HERO. 119 

softly — my mother comes in with a flushed face and streaming 
eyes^ 

“Oh! my poor child!” she utters, in a broken voice, running 
toward me; but I crouch against the w^all, and put up my hands 
deprecatingly. 

“ Don’t touch me! don’t touch me!” I gasp. “ I am all riglit 
— I shall not mind much — I know you're sorry for me, only 
please — please — don’t touch me, don’t speak to me!” 

Mamma looks at me terrified. 

“ Oh! my poor child!” she says again. 

“ I shall soon get over it,” I mutter, still feeling nothing but 
that strange deadness, “ only don’t speak to me, and don’t let 
any one else come near me.” 

Then I lean my arms on the little deal table, and relapse into 
silence, whilst my mother weeps and gazes at me; and all this 
time I feel notliing but a sense of utter vagueness and barren- 
ness. I do not know how long a time passes. Presently papa 
comes in softly. 

“We must get her home,” he whispers to mamma. 

1 rise quite composedly and go toward him. 

“ Are all the people gone, papa?” 

“Yes, my dear.” 

His voice trembles, his eyes are full of tears; but mine are 
dry, and my voice unmoved. 

“ Every one?” 

“Yes, dear.” 

“ I am ready, then;” and I put my hand on his arm. 

Back we go down the aisle, as we came. I should have been 
leaning a glad bride on my husband’s arm when I recrossed it. 
I am Doris Keane, without a hope in the w^orld. There is one 
person still in the church, a tall figure hidden away behind a 
column. Quietly I slide my hand from papa’s arm, and go 
toward Vivian Carruthers. 

“ Tell me,” I say, in a clear, distinct voice, when I am close 
to him — “ he did not know she was alive?” 

Silence, and my heart gives the first prick of returning life. 

“He did not?” I say again, questioning, though I affirm it 
sharply. 

“ God help you, child! — I wish I could say so.” 

“ Ah!” and I hear a strange, long-drawn sob. Was that my 
voice ? 

Again I put my hand on papa’s arm, and we issue forth 
through the lonely graveyard, where the bright, fierce sun 
beats down upon the grassy mounds of the quiet dead. 

The dead! To be thinking of them — thinking, ay, longing to 
be one of them, and half an hour before I had come through a 
young girl, tricked out in her bravery, to be married to the man 
she loved, with never a thought of death or the dead, or that 
this place was used for aught save to join the happy willing 
hands of men and w^omen who loved as Wilfred and I did. 

There stands the fly that brought us, with its two old white 
horses, the wedding-pair kept by the Colton job-master. No 
white favor ornaments the breast of the driver, and his face i« 


120 


MY HERO. 


bent down on the harness. Up the road some distance off Mr. 
Carruthers’ impatient chestnuts are pawing the ground. 1 
ought to be sitting behind them this moment, witli Wilfred’s 
liand pressing mine. All these thoughts occur distinctly to me. 
I get into the carriage, and we drive back to Hailing Farm. 
One great desire fills me — to reach my room and lock myself in 
fast. 

There is no one about when we return — silence has fallen on 
the place; but as I go toward the stairs I see the dining-room 
door ajar, the table spread with the wedding-breakfast, and the 
great bride-cake in the midst. I wonder vaguely if the party 
will sit down to the feast without the bride and bridegroom; 
whether they will cut the cake, and if Harry will enjoy it as 
much now that I am heart-broken as if I had been a happy 
bride. At my own door I turn to my mother, who still follows. 

“ Mamma,” I say, beseechingly, “ I want to be alone — do not 
let any one come to trouble me or to ask after me. I shall be 
all right.” 

“ Don’t fret, my darling child,” utters poor mamma, with 
streaming eyes; “ don’t now, there’s a dear.” 

“ No,” I answer quietly, and retreat into my own room, lock- 
ing the door. Still I am quite, quite quiet — there is only the 
dull pain at my heart. I know the time is coming presently 
when my agony will break out; but it has not come yet. Going 
to the glass, I look at my white face, half expecting to see some 
great and awful change that shall make me unrecognizable even 
to myself; but, no, I am just the same as when I last looked, 
only that my eyes have lost their wild brightness, and are dull 
and glassy. 

“Look at yourself, Doris Keane,” I say, in my new strange 
voice; “ you will never be decked out like this again, if you live 
to be an old woman,” and then mechanically I take the orange 
blossoms from my hair, and unfasten my wedding gown. In its 
stead I put on an old blue cotton, and sit down by the side of the 
little bed that has not been made to-day. 

“ Eighteen,” 1 mutter, still in the same audible tone — “ to- 
day is my birthday, and I am eighteen — I have fifty-two more 
years to live, perhaps — three tinies as many as I have lived al- 
ready, And in all that time I shall never love, and never be 
loved again.” 

I am beginning to awake, as a nearly drowned man comes 
painfully to life after his long swoon. I think to myself how, 
now, this moment, I ought to be sitting side by side with Wil- 
fred, in front of the great bride-cake, listening to the little 
speeches, and having our healths drunk. I picture all to myself 
— how I should have come back once more to this little room to 
take off my bridal attire, and don the peach silk and white bon- 
net that I was to go away in. I see the fretting horses that are 
to take us to Colton Station in Vivian’s brougham, and the 
crowd of faces round the door come out to see us off. I see the 
old shoes thrown after us for luck, which I have begged in my 
poor superstitious heart might not be forgotten. I catch sight 
for the last time of Jack’s hearty, loving face shining in full 


MY HERO. 


kindness and forgiveness now I am going away from him for- 
ever. We are to leave Colton by the afternoon express for Lon- 
<lon, and to-morrow we are to go abroad. And then I start ii]> 
with a sudden cry of “Never now. Oh Wilfred!” And with 
that cry my senses come back to me, the full flood of agony is 
upon me, and I throw myself upon the bed, with my face buried 
in the pillows, and my teeth gnawing them to stifle the cries and 
sobs of my imbearable anguish. 

“ Wilfred, Wilfred, Wilfred!” My lips go on framing that onfe 
word only, with passionate reproach, passionate entreaty, pas- 
sionate longing. In my insensate misery, in my despair, I wish it 
liad never been known until after we were married, and then, 
wicked or not wicked, I would never have left him. What was 
all the world to me ? Wliat could he do that I could not forgive 
him, so only he loved me? “Wilfred — my Wilfred!” and then 
with a ^eat shudder, “ Not my Wilfred!” 

I begin to wonder vaguely who is that other woman— the one 
to whom he of right belongs. Does she love him ? I know he 
does not care for her — oh, I know that I am all the world to 
him now, though he was indifferent to me once. I feel no bit- 
terness against him, no thought that he meant to do me a griev- 
ous wrong — was it not all for love’s sake ? All my bitter wrath 
is turned upon those who came between us and prevented our 
happiness. Oh, if they had only left us for one short month 
to our heaven, we should have had the remembrance to live 
upon all the long years after, however sore and bitter they 
might be. 

So I cry and rave to myself in my mad misery, neither know- 
ing nor caring if it is wicked and foolish, feeling no thankful- 
ness for my escape from such a pitfall, only anger at the cruel 
violence with which I have been torn back h-oiii it. 

If I could only cry — if only tears would come; but my agony 
is too great. Dry sobs choke my throat until I gasp for breath, 
all my quivering frame is torn with anguish, but not one single 
tear comes to my hot, aching eyes. 

“ Oh Wilfred, Wilfred, Wilfred!” still I go on moaning out his 
name, wliile the long hours go by and the great hot sun wends 
his way across the glaring sky. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

ONCE MORE. 

“ Sweeter to rest together dead, 

Far sweeter than to live asunder.” 

“ Look in my face and say if there is aught 
I have not dared, I would not dare for thee.” 

The broad red shadows fall across my little room at sundown, 
lie upon the walls, and streak the faded carpet. I look out ami 
see a crimson sky, beyond the dark green mass of trees in the 
Southcote Woods, and hear the cathedral clock boom out eight 
—we should have been in London by now. I am quiet again, 
and sit still near the open window, that the faint breeze may 


122 


MY HERO, 


comis in to cool my throbbing brow. I have kept my doot* 
resolutely locked — have eaten nothing and admitted no one. My 
mother has been up several times entreating admission, implor- 
ing me to take some food, but I have refused. I cannot see 
any one, and eating would choke me. There is a knock now. 

“ Doris, my dear child, do let me in!” 

“ Oh! mamma, I am all right,” I answer wearily; “please let 
me be alone.” 

“ I don’t want to come in, dear; only you must eat something, 
and drink a little wine — you will be ill.” 

“ If you will put it down I will take it in, mamma,” I an- 
swer. 

I hear her deposit her burden outside and go away; then, 
opening the door softly, I take it in. I try very hard to swallow 
a mouthful, but it chokes me; then put the wine to my lips, but 
that is worse. I resume my seat by the window, still holding 
the glass; something flies suddenly past me, smashing it to 
atoms, and spilling the red wine all over me. I start violently, 
my nerves are so shaken that the fright makes me turn sick and 
faint. When I look up, there is a stone on the floor beside 
me, with something white near it. Trembling, I stoop to pick 
up a paper with these words written upon it: 

“ My darling, if ever you loved me in your life, come out to 
me in the woods. I shall wait there until midnight. You may 
never see me again.” 

A great trembling seizes me — how shall I get to him unseen, 
for I never dream of disobeying the summons. If I go round by 
the back way, I must pass the kitchen wundow. The servants 
will see me, I shall be stopped, or followed, for they will suspect 
at once on what errand I am bound; and my family would 
sooner send me into a lion’s den, I know, than to Wilfred. 

He will be there until midnight — very well, I shall wait till 
every one is in bed, and then steal out like a thief in the night. 
Oh! those w^eary hours that come between! — how shall I get 
through them ? I pace up and dowm, half mad with impatience, 
but am obliged to sit down again; my knees tremble, I feel so 
weak. Then I bethink myself that it is because I have eaten 
nothing. I must eat, I say resolutely to myself, or perhaps my 
strength will fail, and I shall not get to him. So, sitting down 
to the table, I eat what mamma has brought me, though it is 
absolute pain to swallow, and drink a glass of water. 

Nine o’clock strikes clear through the evening air. Again 
mamma knocks at the door. This time I open it. She comes in 
softly, and looks wisfully at me. I know she is longing to take 
me in her sheltering arms, to press me to her mother’s heart, 
with that true, tender woman’s instinct that makes the suffering 
child the dearest; and going up I kiss her. I could not have 
done it an hour ago, but now that I am to see him once more my 
anguish is half forgotten. 

“ My poor, dear lamb,” she says, and bursts into tears; but my 
eyes are dry — it is I who soothe her. 

“ Do not be unhappy for me, mamma,” I wdiisper. “ I shall 


MY HERO. 123 

get over it. You know people don’t die of broken hearts,” and I 
even smile. 

She looks at me bewildered — then her glance falls on the 
table. 

“ Ah,” she says, with a sigh of relief, “ that is a good girl to 
have eaten something. I shall get you some more.” 

No, no, no — not another morsel.” 

“ But ” and she looks at my stained dress and the broken. 

glass. 

“ Yes, it is broken,” I mutter. 

‘‘Let me fetch you another glass, dear; you want something 
— it will do you good. What’s this ?” picking the stone off the 
ground. “ However did it come here ?” and I turn away to con- 
ceal my confusion. 

“ Will you go to bed soon, love ?” 

“Yes, mamma.” 

“ Then I will make it for you, dear — you won’t like Hepzibah 
in.” 

And I stand by the window watching her as she smoothes out 
the pillows and folds the sheets, thinking what a great thing a 
mother’s love is, and accusing myself of ingratitude for her ten- 
derness. 

“You will try and sleep, dear,” she says, kissing me fondly. 

“ Yes, mamma,” and I begin to take off my dress. I hate de- 
ceit, but is not this life or death to me ? 

“ Good-night, my dear love. God bless you! — don’t fret more 
than you can help;” and with humid eyes she glances back at 
me from the door-way with a loving nod. 

Presently I hear her low voice speaking in the porch to papa. 

“ She seems quiet, but looks strange. I don’t think she has 
cried at all — but then she never does, and I think people who 
have no tears suffer the most.” 

“ Poor soul, poor soul!” mutters papa, his voice broken with 
pity. 

“ I think she means to go to bed now,” says mamma. “We 
won’t any of us be up late to-night. Oh, how thankful I shall 
be when this dreadful day is over!” 

“God curse that blackguard!” utters papa in a deep con- 
centrated voice; and I shrink away from the window, not 
wanting to hear any more. 

Ten o’clock. I hear my sisters come up to their rooms, stop- 

f )ing as they pass to listen at my door. I do not stir — there is no 
ight, and they pass on. Then Fred and Harry go past, then 
mamma, then the servants. It is half-past ten; I am quivering 
from head to foot with anxiety. Though he has said “till 
midnight,” I feel a horror lest he shall have given me up and 
gone. I know his impatience. There is a sound of footsteps 
upon the gravel. I, peeping behind the curtain, see papa with 
Jack. They go out of the gate up the road. Now is my time. 
Hurriedly I slip on a dress, throw a shawl over my shoulders, a 
little hood upon my head, with which I can, if I choose, conceal 
my face, and softly unclosing the door steal down the stairs with 
a furious beating at my heart. Once amongst the tall corn I am 


134 


MY IIKllO. 


safe; but there is the road to cross first. I steal round the back 
way to tlie gate, but papa's and Jack’s voices are coming toward 
me, and I crouch behind a great bush of evergreen. They pass 
close beside me— oh! how thankful I am that none of the dogs 
are with them! As it is I am half dead with terror, but they 
go in, liolting the door behind them. How shall I get in on my 
return? A cold perspiration breaks out upon me. Well, I care 
not; they may know all when it is too late to stop my going. 

The moon has risen, the night is exquisite, light almost as day, 
and I crouch along by the hedgeside, and then dart across the 
road,’ fearful of being seen from the windows. Once in the fields, 
away I race to the woods, and as I come up tathe stile, the clock 
booms eleven. 

Wilfred’s figure is before me. In a moment he has vaulted 
the stile, and I am in his arms sobbing — yes, sobbing as if my 
lieart would break, with a great rain of tears blinding my eyes, 
l)a,rt anguish, part joy. 

A long silence, broken only by his soft caresses, his tender 
words, and then, when I at last look up in his face, I see a wild, 
haggard, hunted look there that frightens me. 

“Come, darling!” he says feverishly. “Come away from 
here! You may be missed and tracked to this place; let us hide 
ourselves away somewhere in the woods until I have told you.” 

He gets over the stile and lifts me after him. I am so weak 
and trembling, all my strength has forsaken me. He puts my 
band through his arm, and hurries me along the steep path, 
checkered with bright rays of strong white light and reflected 
tracery from the heavy branches above. 

I have forgotten that he is another woman’s husband as I toil 
along the steep path, happy because I am clinging to his strong 
arm. I have forgotten the past agony, forgotten what lies be- 
fore me in the future; I feel no weariness, no pain. I am with 
him. 

Oh! great and wasted love, why do we so often give our heart’s 
gold for naught ? 

At last we come out into the broad, full moonlight, on the 
ridge of a hill looking down into the quiet valley, where lie the 
dark trees and the silver shimmering water. Under a clump of 
beeches is a rustic bench; there we sit down, Wilfred and I, for 
this our last meeting in the woods. 

“Oh, child!” he cries suddenly, in a vehement broken voice, 
catching me to his breast — “ and you would have been my wife 
now!” 

His words recall me to my senses, and I tear myself away 
from him. 

“ Already!” he says bitterly; and then with infinite tenderness 
— “ Little Doris!” 

And so moved am I by his sad tones, so dearly I love him, 
that I can utter no reproach, but only sit and weep helplessly. 

“Child, what shall I say to you?’’ and he takes my hands 
with tender force. “ Oh, little darling, don’t you believe it was 
for love of you? I thought I could luake you happy— 1 thought 


MY HERO. 


125 


I could be All the world to you, and I could not part from you, 
my darling — you know I tried, and it nearly drove me mad.” 

Still I can only answer by my sobs. 

“ Doris — look at me!” And I raise my eyes to his beautiful 
dark ones, that have such a terrible haunted look in them. 

“ Can’t you see how I suffer?” he asks, passionately; “ don’t you 
know that for the last fifteen hours I’ve been suffering the tor- 
ments of the lost? Oh! child, I dare say you have been miser- 
able all this long bitter day, but you haven’t had the crushing 
pain of feeling it was all through your own accursed folly. Do 
you hate me, or will you listen while I tell you this wretched 
story ?” 

“ I am listening,” I answer feebly. 

“ Put your head on my breast, darling, as you used,” he pleads, 
drawing me toward him, but I start away. 

“ No, no, no!” I cry, “ go on.” 

“ If you have lost all the old love for me,” he says, bitterly, 

“ why should I try to justify myself in your eyes ? You had better 
leave me, believing me an unmitigated blackguard — it will 
make the past all the easier to forget.” 

“I should not love you less,” I answer, my breath coming 
thick and painfully, “whatever you have done. I didn’t love 
you because you were good, or great, or noble. I loved you 
because I could not help it: and I can’t change now, because — 
because ” 

“ Because what, child?” he utters, with feverish passion. “ Be- 
cause I’m a dishonorable villain — because I have tried to ruin 
your life, and been frustrated by a merciful Providence ?” 

I can’t bear that bitter, sneering tone. 

I don’t care what you’ve done,” I answer him. “ I forgive . 
you, and I love you with all my heart. So much, that I shall 
never in all my life love any one else.” f ^ ' 

“ Say that again,” he cries, passionately. “ Say it — swear it!” 

And he tries the second time to take me in his arms, but I 
spring away, and stand upright before him. 

“ Never any more,” I cry; “ when I saw you first, I forgot in 
my mad misery that you were another woman’s husband.” 

“Curse her!” he mutters, bitterly. “Oh! Doris, this last 
time!” 

And the old, pleading tones make me half waver. 

“ No,” I say, nerving myself again. “ I will not lay my head 
on your breast, nor let you kiss me ever any more.” 

“Why, what love is this!” he cries, scoffingly — “a fair 
weather love, that shrinks and dies when a cloud passes over it. 
Why, child!” grasping my arm, “ did you never read, even if 
you have not felt it — did you never read how men and women 
have loved, have been all the world to each other, have grown 
into stronger, deeper, intenser love for every blast and storm 
that blew against them ? Why, your poor, weak little love is 
like the house we are told of in your Bible, that was built uj)on 
sand, and when the winds blew and the storm beat, it fell — but 
mine, child” (jDassionately), “mine is like the house that was 
built upon the rock, and come good days, come evil days, sun- 


126 


MY HERO, 


shine, or the maddest fury of the tempest, it will stand im- 
movable, firm, stancher for all the wild waves beating against 
it.” 

The dear voice goes well home, the old love thrills me through 
and through, but I know the false fair sophistry is poison to my 
soul. I see right on one hand, and wrong on the -ither. I can 
yet distinguish, and, nerving myself, say: 

“ Tell me about her now.” 

“ What shall I tell you ? ” he answers, bitterly. “ I want you 
to forget, for once at least, that there is such a personage as Mrs. 
Wilfred Carruthers.” 

Again that harsh, savage^ sneer. 

“Perhaps,” I say, trembling, and with a hushed voice, “per- 
haps she might — might die some day;” and I almost feel as if 
I had been guilty of breaking the sixth commandment in my 
heart. 

“ Die!— she!” he laughs out loud. “ Why, you poor little ten- 
der white-faced thing, you will be dead, in your grave, with a 
big tree grown up over you, while she is a hale, hearty woman; 
and I — oh, little one!” and the voice softens to its sweetest, ten- 
derest infiection, “ I wish we could die here together now, with 
my arms round you, and never be parted any more— not even in 
our grave.” 

“ So do I!” I answered with intense eagerness. 

“ People don’t die when they want to,” he says, relapsing into 
bitterness; “ when the v^orld is at the zenith of its dearness, we 
drop off like ripe apples in the autumn time ; but when we long and 
pray and yearn to die, the life clings hard in us, and won't be 
stamped out. No, no, child, you and I will live to know many 
a bitter heartache yet — never fear.” 

Midnight rings out through the clear air. 

“ Do you hear ?” I cry, frightened at being out there with him in 
this dead night-time. “ I must go soon; and you have told me 
nothing yet that I came out to hear.” 

' ‘ Why should you go ? Are you impatient to have the last hour 
we shall ever spend together over? Well, well, I will tell you, 
since you are so keen to be gone. Four years ago I was yacht- 
ing, and put in at a little village on the southern ooast— you 
want the whole charming romance from the very beginning ?” 

I nod my head. 

“ Well,” he continues, in the same scoffing tone, “ there it is 
my good fortune to behold a young goddess, sapphire-eyed and 
raven tressed, with a figure molded like a Diana. I make ad- 
vances to this paragon of beauty, which she, like the chaste 
hinitress, scornfully repels. So 

“ ‘ 1 loved and I rode away.’ 

but some time later that meddling jade Fortune threw me into a 
country house ten miles distant from the same fishing village; 
and finding the time hang heavy on my idle hands I thought Fd 
give Satan the chance of finding some mischief for them to do, 
as Watts says in his exquisite poems. I suppose you know hiu\ 
by heart, don’t you, you good, well-brought-up young lady V” 


MV HERO. 


127 


“Don’t!” I muttered, entreatingly — “don’t speak to me like 
that. You are not like yourself. That hard, mocking voice 
makes me wretched.” 

“Well, well,” he says, sharply, “ let me get over this pleasant 
story as well and quickly as may be. I walked over to the fish- 
ing village where I had seen the girl. A terrific storm came on, 
which prevented my returning, and I stopped the night at the 
only inn in the place, and a wretched hole it was. 

“ The storm raged all night and all the next day; there was no 
thought of walking ten miles through it, though heaven had 
been at the end of the journey; and late in the afternoon my 
host came to inform me there was a ship in distress out at sea, 
‘ as most likes ’ud be a wreck afore midnight.’ The idea was ex- 
citing. I had never seen a good wreck; so I borrowed some 
tarpaulins and ran down to the beach, where some two score of 
men and women were already assembled, my nymph among the 
lot. I haven’t time to gratify your feminine love of sensation 
with a graphic account of the excitement and the fear, the 
hopes, the prayers, the oaths and ejaculations that went on 
around me, and how the good ship came pitching along to her 
destruction. Suffice it, she was wrecked on the big black rocks 
close in upon shore, and that we did our best to save the few 
poor devils who could cling on to them long enough.” 

“ And you too, Wildred!” I cry, with eager face bent forward, 
and hands tight clasped, happy at the thought of my love being 
a real hero, “ you helped to save them!” 

“ Yes; my blood was up, and I took my turn like a fool, which 
ended in my saving one poor fellow, only for twelve hours 
though — he died in the night — and getting knocked on the head, 
so that I was brought in insensible.” 

“Oh, Wilfred!'’ I murmur, glad at heart, “but you risked 
your life then to save him.” 

“ I was pretty tired of life then,’' he answers carelessly, “ and 
it was worth the wild emotion it gave me. However, the long 
and short of it was that I was carried to the nearest cabin, which 
by the devil’s own luck belonged to the father of my black - 
haired sea-nymth — Mr. Silas Tucker at your service — my fathei*- 
in-law.” 

“ What!” I cry, unable to repress my wondering horror, “ your 
wife is a common woman!” 

“The commonest of the common,” he answers with bitter 
politeness, “ a fish wench, who could not write her own name.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

WILFRED. 

“ For good it were, if anything be good, 

To comfort me in this pain’s plague of mine, 

Seeing thus, how neither sleep, nor bread, nor wine. 

Seems pleasant to me; yea, no thing that is.” 

I RELAPSE into silent anguish; and he resumes his story, more 
bitter- voiced than before. 

‘ ‘ She nursed me for three weeks, night and day, this common 


12S 


MY MERO. 


fish-girl, for I was light-headed, and tliey did not know whom I 
belonged to, or anything about me— thought, as they had seen 
me come in a yacht before, tliat it had put in for shelter further 
up the coast, or been lost in the storm perhaps. I don’t 
know or care what they thought. Anyhow, I was in no condi- 
tion to answer questions, for I M^as down with fever and light- 
headed. Naturally while 1 was getting well, I fell in love with 
my nurse, who was as cunning as the devil himself. It’s no 
good going into a psychological argument with you, child,” 
(impatiently), “or trying to explain the difference between the 
love I feel for you and the passion — faugh!” (with intense dis- 
gust) — “ I had for her. Both are strong enough to make men 
mad sometimes. And to be tied down for a month and see only 
one woman, if she happens to be beautiful, or you fancy her— 
well, enough! I tell you she was cunning, and I light-headed, 
and, between it all, why, wherefore, or what madness possessed 
me, I don’t know, but when she was determined to be made a 
lady of, a lady!” (with bitter sarcasm), “ or to send me about my 
business, I married her, and it is this common wmman, this 
low fish-girl, that stands between us and our heaven. Yes, lit- 
tle Doris, look at me with your wide-open, wondering eyes, and 
see what a maniac a man is capable of being made for the sake 
of a miserable, unrestrained passion!” 

“ And was it she wiio prevented our marriage?” I say quietly, 
with something of contempt for my hero coming over me the 
first time in my life. 

“Yes — she appeared in prqpHa persona this morning while I 
w as at breakfast. If it had only been four-and- twenty hours 
later!” he says, grimly looking far away under his bent brows. 

A strange mixture of feeling is battling in my breast — my 
great love for him, my anguish at parting from him forever, 
and the bitterness of feeling that he could deliberately plan the 
rain of my life. Would a man who w^as honest and true con- 
sent to degrade and mar the future of the wmman he loved, for 
1 1 is selfishness’ sake ? I am suffering my w^orst pang nowq in the 
conviction that my hero is unworthy. 

“ Good-bye, Wilfred,” I say in a low voice, turning to go. 

“ What!” he cries, starting, “ you are going to leave me — to 
leave me like that, when you know it is our la§t meeting ? So, 
then ” (bitterly), “ that is your great love!” 

“ I am going like that,” I answer, in a choked voice, “ because 
1 no longer believe in you.” 

And the harsh words grieve me a thousandfold more in the ut- 
terance than they can pain him. 

“You are going,” he retorts, wdth a harsh sneer, “because, 
after the manner of your sex, you draw" back the moment the 
way does not seem j)leasant and smooth to you.” 

“No,” I cry, passionately, “it is not so. I have loved you 
with all my heart, and I love you still; but you have w^antonly 
deceived me — you would ha’^e sacrificed all my life, and then, 
perhaps, when you tired of me, would have left me in disgust, 
like the woman that is your wife.” 

“ Doris!” He is on his knees wdth his arms thrown round 


MY HERO. 


129 


me. “ You don’t believe that, child! say you don’t. \Vhat! do 
you think I am such a blackguard as to have premeditated 
j our ruin, and carried it out in cold blood ? Do you think it 
has cost me nothing?— do you think my mind hasn’t been a hell 
of fear and remorse ever since I gave in to my passionate 
love of you ? I tried to keep away — tried hard — did I ever, by 
word or deed, seek to take advantage of your innocence ? It 
was only at last when my love grew too strong for me, when it 
w as torture to me to be away from you a day, when I felt that 
y(>u were miserable without me, and believed I could make your 
life happy in spite of everything, that I gave in. And, darling, 
so I would and can now. Come with me, and I swear to de- 
vote every hour of my life to making atonement to you for my 
wrong.” 

His tone of vehement entreaty almost frightens me. I shrink 
ft way from him. 


“ What have you to live for here?” he goes on passionately. 
“ What will your life be henceforth ? What will the years hold 
for us when we are parted forever, when we are gone for all 
time out of sight and hearing of each other? — when therein 
nothing before us but one great dreary blank, a miserable day 
that has no to-morrow. Won’t you, in your loneliness and 
wretchedness, feel it would have been a thousand times better 
to endure some reproach for the sake of the man who loved you 
from his soul, than just for a m^re commonplace mockery 
the world calls reputation, to be eating your heart out, and 
wishing yourself dead, and quit of your misery every day of your 
life ?” 

“I know what my life will be,” I say, faintly. “ I don’t expect 
any more happine.ss in this world; but I don’t think it will be so 
Jiard as if I were haunted by remorse that I could never get away 
from.” 

“Remorse!” he answers, quickly, “why remorse? Pshaw, 
child, you are overridden with old wives’ fables! Tliere would 
be no sin in it. Why were we given the power to love as you 
and I do if it was only meant to torture us ? So long as we were 
faithful to each other, as I swear before Heaven to be to you, 
there is no sin, no wrong. Our only crime is again.st society, 
and that will punish us in its own way. But, darling, what do 
you care for society — what is the world to you— what can it make 
you lose that I cannot atone to you for ?” 

His voice has the old power over me — I feel a puppet in his 
hands, and yet something stronger in my heart makes me com- 
bat his influence, 

“ Let me go!” I entreat, trying to drag myself away from him. 
“ Why do you tempt me ?” 

But I am as nothing in his strong grasp, and he holds me 
faster yet, while he says, in his impassioned tones: 

“ Child, won’t you give up something for my sake ? Have j^ou 
no thought of what my life will be if you leave me ? I know it 
has been worthless and useless so far, but for your sake I would 
try to become something better— it could not help but be under 
your sweet influence. Won’t you be my good angel, and try to 


130 


MY HERO. 


save me?” he pleads in that dear voice that is still all potent in 
my poor, weak heart. “ If you leave me I shall go headlong to 
the devil — my future will be blasted beyond all reclaim. Child, 
will you not hinder that, now it is all in your power ?” 

I am sobbing bitterly, and still the resistless voice goes on, 
murmuring, “ For my sake, if you love me.” 

What if, after all, I yield, and my heart gives a wild bound at 
the thought. How shall I endure my life without him ? — ho^^ 
drag on a bare existence with the knowledge that I have clasped 
that dear hand and listened to that loved voice for the last time f 
Could I suffer more from the world's scorn — that world for which 
I care nothing — than from the loss of him? My heart is fain to 
yield, and yet something still holds me back. No, no, no! it 
says to me you can choose between right and wrong; if you sin 
with your eyes open, be sure it will find you out. 

And so I plead to him in an agony of despair. 

“ Oh, Wilfred, don’t tempt me! you ought to help me, be- 
cause it is so hard. Do you think I don’t know what my life 
will be — how miserable, how lonely, how bitter — don’t you 
know that the greatest happiness in the world seems to me 
your constant presence, and that I have to fight sore and 
hard against my love of you ? Don’t make it harder for me. I 
know we should be punished somehow if we did wrong — in some 
way it would be made ten times more bitter for us than if I 
leave you now I know it is my duty. And don’t harden your 
heart, darling, and go persistently to your ruin— because that 
would make my misery unbearable. Try for my sake to do 
right, and I will try to bear my sorrow for yours, and then 
somehow it will be made right to us. Wish me good-bye, Wil- 
fred, dear Wilfred, and let me go now. Hark, it is striking 
one!” 

The moon is still bright. I see a sudden fury come into his 
face, and he cries; 

“ By Heaven, you sha’n’t leave me! I swear you ” and he 

catches violently hold of me. 

Terrified, I resist and tear myself away from him; in the effort 
my foot slips, and I fall forward against the rudely-cut bencli. 

One of the sharp stakes tears a wound in my cheek — I feel the 
blood sjjurting out over me. 

“ Wliat have I done — my darling! — Doris!” he cries in agony, 
with great beads standing out on his forehead. But I don’t 
mind the pain, though I feel sick and faint. I am thankful for 
anything to divert the channel of his passion. 

I am standing against the tree, ghastly white I know in the 
moonlight, with the blood trickling in red heavy drips down me, 
and he is horror-struck, all the violence sobered out of him. 

“ I want to go home,” I mutter faintly. “ I am worn out.” 

“ Poor little child!” he says, with a great pity in his voice, 
“ What a brute I have been to you! I daren’t keep you now, 
since you are suffering— great Heaven!” he breaks off suddenly, 
“ it drives me mad to see your blood— come quick to the water!” 
And in a moment he has seized me in his arms like a baby, and 
in rushing off to the big water-pool in the hollow. I lie quite 


MV HERO. 


131 


still, with a .xjn.se of tired faintness; and when he is bathing my 
face with hjs handkerchief I keep my eyes shut in sheer wear- 
iness. 

“ Doris, look at me!” he says in agonized voice. I believe he 
thinks I am dying— oh! if I could only die like this! 

The wound has ceased bleeding, and I stagger to my feet. 

“ But, child,” he whispers, “ have you thought how you are 
going to get back ? What if some one should hear you V” 

I don't tell him that the door is bolted, and that I must neces- 
sity call some one dowm— that would be an additional weapon 
for him against my return. Somehow I have lost all dread of 
my family— weariness and intense emotion have stupefied me. 
“ Leave me here,” I entreat, when he has lifted me tenderly 
over the stile; but he refuses. 

“ Not till I have seen you into the lane,” he answers reso- 
lutely. 

So we walk on, I leaning painfully and wearily on his arm, 
half blind, and wholly worn out. 

“ I daren’t press you now, my own love,” he whispers, in his 
low carressing voice. 

“ I shall wait in London till I hear from you. When you find 
your life to hard to bear — and, my darling, if you feel for me 
what I do for you, you will find it too hard — write to me to the 
Club, and bid me come, or say you are coming to me. Promise 
me so much.” 

“ Yes,” I answer, too weary to i-esist. 

We are coming near the house. I look up, and, to my dismay, 
see lights flickering about the windows. An agony comes across 
me that my absence is discovered. 

“Wilfred!” I almost shriek. “ Do you see — they are looking 
for me! Go back — go back, I entreat you! If they find us to- 
gether I shall die.” 

We are close to the gate — a dark figure comes up suddenly the 
other side. 

“Would to God you were dead, sooner than disgraced like 
this!” says a furious voice, and Jack springs over the gate and 
with a bitter imprecation aims a blow at Wilfred. Like light- 
ning he responds, but in a second I have thrown myself between 
them. The blood flows from my cheek again — I feel a stunning 
blow on my head, not meant for me — am just conscious of a 
smothered cry from two men’s voices, and then I remember no 
more. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE DAYS THAT FOLLOW. 

“ Swallow, my sister, O sister swallow. 

How can thine heart be full of the spring? 

A thousand summers are over and dead. 

What hast thou found in the spring to follow? 

What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? 

What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?” 

For some days after this night on which I am carried insen- 
sible to my room I do not leave it, The doctor has said that I 


132 


MY HERO. 


must be kept very quiet, free from all excitement, or he will not 
answer for the consequences. No one comes to see me but 
mamma or Hepzibah, to bring what I want and to arrange the 
room. 

I have a vague consciousness of having done something very 
wrong, and being under the ban of my family’s displeasure. 
Mamma comes to me, but, though she does not allude to the 
past, her manner is changed, and has lost all that tenderness 
which she showed me on the first day of my great sorrow. I am 
filled with an overwhelming sense of weariness and pain; my 
life is done; my heart is broken. I am too worn-out for tear.s 
or paroxysms of anguish; now and then a long-drawn sigh 
comes from the very depths of my soul, and I turn my head 
over on the pillow. 

When I see myself the first time I am frightened. My face is 
ghastly white; there are heavy rings under my eyes, and on my 
left cheek a great black swollen wound. Shall I have the marie 
always, I wonder, to remind me of that terrible night in my life V 

On the third day I rise and, dressing myself, sit by the window. 
On the fourth I long to get out again — the room seems like a 
prison to me. A vague wonder crosses my mind whether I 
shall be allowed to leave it when I choose. When mamma 
comes I say to her: 

“ I am tired of this room. I shall go down to-day.” 

She fidgets about and looks out of the window. Presently she 
says, turning tome: 

“ I don't want to bring up a painful subject, but before I can 
consent to your leaving your room I must know what you mean 
to do.” 

“ Mean to do!” I echo. 

“ Of course we know you have had a great trial, Doris, and we 
are very sorry for you, but you have deceived us so that we can- 
not feel very much confidence in you; and after jour fatal im- 
prudence we think it necessary to keep a perpetual watch upon 
you.” 

‘ ‘ Do you mean my going to bid him good-bye for the last time ?” 
I say with trembling lips. 

“I mean your*being out for hours in the dead of night with 

an unprincipled man like Of course,” mamma interrupts 

herself very quickly, “ you are very young and inexperienced, 
and don’t know how the world judges such things, but still I 
should have thought your own pride and sense would tell you 
the folly and danger of meeting a man in that way to whom you 
stood in such such a painful, position. Indeed I can’t under- 
stand your ever consenting to see or speak with him again, after 
the disgrace and injury he had inflicted upon you.” 

“Mamma,” I falter. “ I— I loved him so, that when lie 

wanted to see me once more, I could not help going to him.” 

“But what means had he of coniinunicating with youV” si if 
asks. 

And then I tell her the whole story. 

“ It is a most unfortunate business,” she murmurs. “ I dor 


3/1' HERO. 133 

know what is to come of it, I’m sure. Your papa and brother 
think you ought to leave the place.” 

“Why?” I ask. 

“ Because every one will be talking about you; it is all over 
the place already, I dare say. One can’t help servants talking.” 

“ What do you mean ?” I cry, a new terror seizing me. 

“ I mean that you being alone with him in the woods for sev- 
eral hours will make people say very injurious things about 
you. His being married, of course, was a dreadful thing, and 
every one would have pitied you very much, but now after your 
terrible imprudence ” 

“ But why need any one know ?” I exclaim, eagerly. 

“ Because the moment he missed you, your papa went off to 
Hr. Carruthers; and however careful one may be, you can’t 
help servants knowing everything.” 

“ How did you come to miss me?” I ask. 

“ I could not sleep for thinking of you, and went to your room 
to look at you. The door was ajar — you were gone — the bed 
had not been slept in. That was half -past twelve. I woke your 
papa, of course, and he immediately thought you had gone off 
with — with that man. So he rode off at once to Southcote Park, 
and Jack said he would go through the woods to look for you — 
it was just a chance that you might have wandered off alone 
there. Mr. Carruthers was in a terrible way — it’s to be hoped 
he and his brother did not meet that night.” 

For the first time I feel the full conviction of my own madness in 
going to Wilfred, and gasp out: 

“ Oh! mamma, what shall I do!” 

“ You can’t do anything now,” she answers, “except promise 
us never to see him again. You won’t want to do so, I should 
think, after tliis; for you must see that if he had really been fond 
of you, he would never have brought this fearful disgrace and 
trouble upon you. One cannot understand these things — I sup- 
pose it is the perversity of human nature; but, as your papa says, 
it seems as if you were possessed, to refuse such a man as Mr. 
(’arruthers, and take up with a— a ruffian like his brother. I’m 
told he’s in a dreadful way — hasn’t been outside the house, and 
hardly touched food since. And — and we cannot tell what you 
may do next, or what madness may take you — it is just as likely, 
your papa says, that you may take it into your head to go after 
that bad man— he seems to possess some dreadful influence over 
you.” 

‘ ‘ So you are going to shut me up,” I say bitterly. 

“ Not if you give your solemn promise never to hold any com- 
munication with him again.” 

I remain silent, and presently mamma goes away. I dread 
meeting my sisters, more still papa; but I cannot remain any 
longer here alone, and go down-stairs to the drawing-room. My 
sisters are all there, but not one of them speaks to me as I enter. 
My heart m full— I feel their unkindness bitterly. If they had shown 
me just a little sympathy, a grain of sisterly tenderness — but no, 
a few cold looks askance, an utter ignoring of my presence— that 


134 


MY HERO. 


is the way in which they meet me after my four miserable days 
of solitude. 

When we go in to dinner, papa seems not to see me; he is busy- 
ing himself at the sideboard with the wine, and even Harry looks 
awkwardly at me, and does not like to speak. But I notice that 
they all stare surreptitiously at me when they think I am not 
looking. Mamma is the only person who addresses a word to me. 
When, after dinner is over, I stroll out into the garden, I feel my 
movements are watched; and at night as I am going to bed, and 
the key turns softly in my door, a wild desire comes over me to 
rush away from the terrible life of coldness and distrust that 
lies before me, even if I do not go to Wilfred. Only to getaway 
somewhere; where no one would know me or have the power to 
make me feel like the wretched pariah, the disgraced outcast I 
have done to-day. 

The next morning there comes a basket of hot-house flowers 
and fruit for Miss Doris Keane from the master of Southcote 
Park. My heart w-arms to him as it has never done before; I do 
indeed feel intensely grateful for this mark of his sympathy so 
sorely needed just now. My sisters stare and look as much an- 
noyed as surprised, but they eat the peaches and grapes that 1 
timidly offer them. I overhear Julia saying to Fanny, “ He 
surely can’t be such a fool as to vvant to marry her now,” and 
Fanny answering, “ Of course not. I don’t know what he ever 
did see in her. She never was good-looking, and she is down- 
right frightful now with that great mark in her face. I wonder 
liow she got it ?” 

“I suppose we shall never have a chance of marrying, now 
she has disgraced us so,” says Julia, bitterly. “ It would hardly 
liave been worse if she had gone off with him; and then we 
should not have had her white face always prowling about, 
and looking as if she was suffering martyrdom in some good 
cause.” 

Oh! the unknown bitterness their cruel words cause me! I 
rush to my room and cry to myself, “ Oh, I can’t bear it! I can’t 
bear it!” 

One morning, as we are at breakfast, the servant comes in and 
tells mamma that a stranger wants to see her, who will give 
neither her name nor business. After some little discussion as 
to the propriety of seeing her at all, mamma goes out. A few 
minutes later, as I am coming in from feeding my chickens, I 
liear her voice calling to me. 

“ Doris, I want you for a moment,” and she precedes me into 
the now empty dining-room. “ There is some one,” she begins, 
hesitatingly, “ some one here who wants to see you.” 

The color flushes into my face, as intuition of who that some 
one is comes to me. 

“ Who is it ?” I ask, quickly. 

“ His — wife,” mamma answers, slowly, 

“ I won’t see her,” I say, hastily. 

“ She seems very anxious, and — I think I would if I were 
you.” 

Dropping into a chair, I lean my head on my hands, my heart 


MY HERO, 135 

beating painfHlly. So I remain for a few moments, while 
mamma waits patiently. 

“ Very well, I will go,” I answer, rising suddenly, and with a 
strange fluttering make my way toward the door. 

“ Where is she?” 

“ In the little room.” 

I go through the passage, pausing a moment wnth my hand on 
the door, before I can command myself sufficiently to enter. As 
I open it, a tall figure turns from the window, and comes toward 
me. We stand facing each other — she who is, I who should 
have been — Wilfred’s wife. 

My first thought is the feminine curiosity to see if she is hand- 
some. Well, one need not look twice — there can be no two 
opinions on that-yshe is beautiful-more beautiful than any one 
;^have ever seen in my life — ten times more beautiful than Lady 
Cecil, who has hitherto been my ideal. Masses of raven black 
hair low on the brow; great eyes of deepest blue, with long 
curled lashes, and the fairest skin I have ever seen warmed in 
the cheeks by the palest tinge of pink, like the heart of a shell. 
She is much taller than I, but her figure seems extremely grace- 
ful. A pang of pain shoots through me as I feel how white and 
small I must look to her, disfigured too as I am by the wound in 
my face. The table is between us — she looks at me a moment 
before speaking. Her voice, when I hear it, has a wonderful 
sweetness, in spite of its hurried nervousness. 

“ I wanted so to see you, miss,” she begins. “ I hope I have not 
made too bold, but I felt 1 could not leave this place without 
just speaking a word or two to you.” 

‘"Yes,” I say mechanically. “Won’t you sit down?” and 1 
drop into a chair, but she remains standing. 

“ I dare say, miss,” she continues, making long pauses be- 
tween her sentences, and then bringing the words out quickly, 
though with still the same sweet intonation — “ I dare say it's not 
very pleasant for you to see me, and mayhap you feel bitter to 
me, and look on me as the cause o’ your sorrow. You’re a lady, 
and fit for him; and I never was, and I ought to have had the 
strength to ha’ set my face firmer against it. But ” (her voice 
growing piteous) “ I did love him so. You think, pr’aps, we 
common folk don’t have the same feeling as you ladies; but it 
seems to me they’re deeper with us who haven’t no head knowl- 
edge or learning — our hearts gets so full because we haven’t 
nothing else to take the thoughts off.” 

CHAPTER XXXn. 

IDOL AND WORSHIPERS. 

“ I have put my days and dreams out of mind— 

Days that are over, dreams that are done. 

Though we seek life through, we shall surely find 
There is none of them clear to us now, not ofie.” 

There is a long pause. I find nothing to say, but wait for her 
to coniiniie. 

“ Of course,” she goes on hurriedly, “ I was no mate for the 


186 


MY HERO, 


likes of him, and I knew all along a grand gentleman such as 
him must soon tire of a poor ignorant girl like me. I was just 
a whim in his head— he fancied my face. I ought to have 
knowed. Well, miss,” she breaks off suddenly, “ I’m keeping 
vou all this time, and I haven’t told you yet what I’m here for. 
t want you to know how it came about. Four years ago he 
came down south in his yacht, and I saw him on the beach, and 
he spoke to me once or twice and asked me to go off with him; 
but I was a proud girl and it angered me when he made so free, 
and I wouldn’t have nothing more to say to him. But when he 
was gone, I couldn’t forget his handsome face— we didn’t often 
set eyes on a gentleman in our parts, 

“ The next time I saw him was quite sudden. It was a wild 
stormy night, and a lot of us went down on the beach, looking 
out after a ship as was coming to pieces on the rocks. There 
was several of our men made a line with ropes, and swam out 
to the wreck to try and get some of the poor fellows safe to 
land: and I’d seen it so often before that I thought nothing of it 
until I see him amongst ’em, ready to take his turn. I gave a 
little screech; it turned my heart sick with fright; and after- 
ward when they pulled him in all white and death-like, with 
the blood ozzing from his forehead, I felt half mad like. They 
took him to father’s cottage, which was handy to the shore; and 
there I nursed him day and night, and tended him like a babe 
till he was well. Sometimes in the fever when he raved I 
thought he was dying, and it nigh broke my heart, for from 
that night they brought him in to us I knew i loved him more 
than I’d ever done anything in the world before.” 

I am leaning my face in my hands, with eyes fixed upon her. 

“ Go on,” I say, in a dry, husky voice. 

“ When he was getting better he seemed to grow fond of me, 
and called me his dear little nurse, and said he would have died 
but for me. And then he told as I musn’t ever leave him any 
more. But I knew the love of a great gentleman wasn’t no 
good to a poor girl like me, and I beseeched him to go aw'ay and 
leave me. Well, he did go away for a day or two, and then be 
came back and asked me to marry him; and I was so overjoyed, 
I said ‘ Yes’ glad enough. But when he was gone again I knew 
it was all wrong, and that I wasn’t fit for him, and should only 
be a drag upon him, so that when the whim for me was gone 
out of him, he’d come to curse and hate me. And I talked it 
over with father, and he saw it like I did; for he’s a proud man, 
is father, though he only comes o’ poor fishing folk. So him and 
I we settled it that 1 should go straight away off to my aunt, 
some miles further up the coast, and he shouldn’t know wdiat 
had become of me; and I went, though it nigh broke my heart. 
But he went to father and swore he must and would have me; and 
after a time father gave in, and told him where I was. Poor old 
man, he thought it was a fine thing to have his Nan made a lady 
of. I might ha’ forgot him if he’d kept away, for I worked hard 
all the day to keep my thoughts off him; but when he came 
after me there to aunt’s, and seemed so fond and earnest, I 
couldn’t hold out no longer— so I let him marry me.’' 


MY HERO. 


137 


There is a long pause again, while she looks at me with fixed 
eyes, in which the tears seem to glitter. Mine are ready to catch 
the infection. 

“ Well ?” I say, more gently this time. 

“ He tired of me in a month,” she says, turning her eyes away 
quickly— “ it couldn’t help but be so— me having nothing to give 
him but my poor love, and that wasn’t much account to him when 
he wearied of me. And then he went away and left me, and every 
time he came back it was for shorter and shorter, and every 
time he went away it was for longer and longer, and I fretted 
and fretted till the trouble seemed a’most too hard to bear. 
Father soon came to see how it was, and he says to me: 

“ ‘ You’re his lawful wife, and where he goes you has a right 
to go. So next time he leaves you, you say as you’ll follow after 
him.’ 

“ And when he came the next time I telled him so, an’ I shall 
never forget how he looked at me, or the bitter words he spoke. 
He said I had enticed him into marrying me, and he cursed the 
day he ever set eyes on my poor fool’s face— that if I wanted to 
ruin his life forever, and drag him down, I had only to show 
myself to his friends, and tell them what a fool I had made of 
him. I was too proud for that, and though I fretted myself to 
the bone at losing him, I never asked him to let me go with him 
any more. And when my child came all my love got wrapped 
up in her, and after that it didn’t seem so hard to bear.” 

The great tears are rolling down her face, her chest heaves. 
My heart grows soft with pity— I stretch out an eager hand 
across the table to her. 

“ I am very sorry for you,” I say — for cannot I feel in my 
heart the anguish of losing him, even though he is proved un- 
worthy of such great love ? 

“I’ve nearly done now, miss. Just ten days since I had a let- 
ter from an old gypsy woman as we’d been good to once when 
she was took ill in our parts. She knew all about my being 
married, and wrote to say as my husband was going to marry a 
young lady near his own home; and I was to come up at once lo 
stop it, or it ’ud be too late. I hadn’t seen him for a year, and at 
last I was half minded to leave him be and say nothing. I knew 
he wouldn’t ever care no more for me, and I’d grown used to my 
life without him; and so it came over me to let him be happ>' 
with a lady as was fit for him. And then, miss, I thought of 
you — yes, more a good deal than of myself — for they telled me 
you was young and pretty and gentle, and I thought to myself 
how some day it must all come out, and how bitter it would be 
to you to have your life spoiled like mine — ay, and worse than 
mine. So I traveled night and day and got here just in the 
morning, time to stop the marriage.” 

A groan escapes me at the remembrance. 

“ Oh, miss,” she says, ever so sorrowfully, in her sweet voice, 
“ I do grieve for you — I know how bitter it must ha’ been to you 
—I ha’ thought o’ you many the time these few days.” 

“ Have you ?” I answer; all my anger against her has died out. 

“ I shall never see him no more, I wouldn’t look in his face 


138 


3IV HERO, 


and see the rage and hate there like it was that morning, not for 
anything in all the world!” and she shudders. “ Fare you well, 
miss. I’m glad I’ve seen you, and telled you all this — ray mind's 
easier for it somehow. I don’t think you’ll feel bitter to me any 
more now.” 

“No — never,” I say. 

And so this strange interview comes to an end. 

After this I give up all thoughts of Wilfred — that is, all hope 
of ever being anything more to him or he to me. I feel no in- 
dignation against him; accuse him neither of selfishness nor 
cruelty. If he sinned toward me, it was because he loved me so, 
If a thousand women had come to me brining the story of 
the wi'ongs he had inflicted on them, I don’t think it would have 
killed ray love for him, but only made the barrier between us so 
much the more impassable. It did not seem any crime to me 
that he should love passionately and weary quickly — a nature 
such as his must perforce be hard to satisfy. 

The days go on, but time brings no healing in its wings. My 
family grow even more cold to me, and I have to bear many a 
harsh word and taunt from my sisters. Jack never comes — I 
have only seen him once since that terrible night, and then he 
was on horseback at the gate speaking to papa, and I knew it 
was on my account he refused to come in. How bitterly I long 
after the old times when he used to love me so dearly — when he 
always took my part and stood by me right or wrong, and I felt 
sure of a refuge in his great loving heart. I think me of the 
times when we used to talk over the future, of how I should 
keep house for him — times never to come any more now. 

One morning when I am alone in the drawing-room, I hear a 
step pass the window, and, looking up, see Mr. Carruthers. 

“ May I come in?” he says, putting his head in at the open 
window; and I answer “ Yes,” gladly enough. 

It is something now to see a face looking kindly at me. 

After we have shaken hands there is an embarrassed pause. 
He fidgets about a little, and then says, staring straight at me: 

“ You’re not looking well, and how did you get that mark on 
your face?” 

“I fell against a bench and cut it open,” I say, flushing crim- 
son at the recollection. 

“ Ah!” he says, screwing his mouth up, as if he himself felt 
the pain of it. 

“ Does it hurt?” he asks tenderly. 

“ No — not now. I dare say it doesn’t improve my appear- 
ance ” (with a faint attempt at a smile). 

After this, Mr. Carruthers sits for a long time ruminating, 1 is 
arms resting on his knees, and apparently bent on polishing his 
left thumb nail. I, sitting listless, make no attempt to continue 
the conversation. 

Suddenly he raises his honest blue eyes to my face. 

“ I’m not clever at expressing myself,” he says. “I feel 
rather like a bull in a china shop with you always; but I want 
to tell you” (coming a little nearer) “ how awfully cut up I’ve 
been about you. I — I wish you’d let me do something for you. 


MY HERO. 130 

Isn’t there something you could think of? I want to be a 
brother to you, just as if ” and then comes a long pause. 

“You are very good,” I answer gently; “but I don’t think 
any one could do anything for me. I don’t hope to be happy 
any more in my life. I suppose some people are born to be un- 
happy and unfortunate.” 

“ Nonsense!” he says sharply; “ it’s absurd to hear a child like 
you talk in that way. What are you ?— eighteen, and never 
going to be happy again! Pshaw!” and he laughs a short, im- 
patient laugh.” 

I sit silent. It does not seem worth while arguing about a 
thing that is a certainty to me, and not a mere matter of specu- 
lation. 

“ Won’t you let me come and take you out a drive sometimes, 
as I used ?” he asks presently. 

“ You’d best have nothing to do with me,” I answer wearily. 
‘ ‘ It seems I have disgraced every one, and am only fit to be held 
up as a mark for general scorn and contempt.” 

The red blood flushes to his brow. I can see how bitterly my 
words pain him. 

“ Who says so?” he cries, indignantly; and tj^ien, without 
pausing, “ I don’t care though all the world said so, I shall never 
believe you anything but what is pure and true and good. Am I 
wrong in having such faith ?” 

His voice is intensely, pasionately eager. 

“ There!” I exclaim, with a forced, bitter laugh, “ you see you 
doubt me, even in the midst of all your professions.” 

At this moment the door opens, and two of my sisters come in, 
so there is no more conversation between us. 

After this he comes frequently, but I avoid, if possible, seeing 
him alone. I cannot but be grateful for his goodness. He con- 
tinues to send me flowers and fruit — sometimes books; and songs 
by the score. 

* One day papa summons me to his room, and I obey in fear and 
trembling, wondering what new misfortune Fate is going to 
empty on me from her full quiver. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

A CONGRATULATION. 

“ Then she took up the burden of life again, 

Saying only, ‘ It might have been.’ 

But of all sad words of tongue or pen, 

The saddest are these, ‘ It might have been.’ ” 

“ Sit down, Doris,” says papa, coldly. “ I have something to 
say to you.” 

1 seat myself, not in any way reassured. 

“ I have never said anything to you about the unhappy events 
of a few weeks ago,” he utters, sternly, “because I could not 
trust myself sufliciently— and— and whatever your imprudence 
may have been, we know” (his voice growing softer) “that you 
have suffered a great deal. Still I feel now there must be a lit- 
tle plain speaking. Your mad imprudence has given occasion to 


140 


MY HERO. 


ill-natured people to say very injurious things about you— so 
much so that not only your own prospects, but your sisters’, are 
likely to be seriously’affected.” 

I sit silent and trembling, wondering what this is a prelude 
to. 

“ What I have to say is this,” continues papa, rising and walk- 
ing nervously to and fro. “ Mr. Carruthers is constantly here — 
it is possible that, in spite of all which has happened, he may 
still be willing to marry you — and” (speaking very quickly) “ if 
it should be so, it is your bounden duty to your family, after the 
scandal you have brought upon them, to accept him, whatever 
your own private feelings may be. Do you hear me?” 

“ Yes,” with a little shiver. 

“ I may be wrong altogether,” pursues papa. “ Mr. Carruthers 
may have utterly abandoned all thought of you, except the de- 
sire to pay you attention from the natural kindness of his heart; 
but if he ever again should ask you to marry him, and you are 
mad enough to refuse him, my house will cease to be your home. 
You understand me ?” 

“ Yes,” I falter, and hie me away to my room, with a secret, 
miserable wofider what I have done to deserve the relentless 
Nemesis that pursues me. 

« > * « 

It is the middle of September — my life is growing more unen- 
durable day by day. I begin to think anything would be better 
than the cold harshness which is visited upon me. It may be 
that feeling so sore and bitter at heart, and knowing the need of 
sympathy so keenly, I am over-sensitive, and fancy unkindness 
where it is scarcely meant. 

They have ceased to watch me now, and I come and go as of 
old. 

One afternoon I resolve to walk into the woods. I have never 
been there since that night, which I cannot think of now with- 
out a shudder. A somber fancy takes me to revisit the haunts 
where I have been so happy and so miserable, and I wend nly 
way across the red-plowed fields, to indulge my bitter memories 
unobserved. 

The hours creep on; I have sat by the steel-blue water pool in 
the green hollow, have wandered through the tall ferns to our 
trysting-oak, have climbed to the ridge of hill shadowed by 
thick-leaved beeches, sacred to the memory of that last bitter 
meeting, and am descending the steep path, hedged by a tangle 
of blackberries and hazel-bushes, when I come suddenly upon 
Mr. CaiTuthers, gun in hand. 

“ Is it really you. Miss Doris ?” he says, looking very glad, as 
he puts out a brown sunburnt hand for mine. 

I, too, should be glad to see his kind, frank face, if it was not 
for the haunting thought of that interview with papa. 

He looks keenly in my face, still liolding my hand. 

“Are you ill?” he asks anxiously; “you look so white and 
wan. I think you must want change of air.” 

“ It doesn’t much matter,” I say, wearily. 


MY HERO, 


141 


“But it does matter. We shall have you slipping through 
our fingers if we don’t look after you.” 

“ Do you thir^ so?” I cry eagerly. “ I wish I could. I should 
be so glad to think I was going to be free of this miserable world 
soon!” 

“ Hush!” he says, gravely; “ don’t talk like that.” 

“ I mean it,” I say, dismally, “as seriously as I ever meant 
anything in my life.” 

‘ ‘ What! Are you still so unhappy ?” 

“ Unhappy!” I echo wearily, leaning against the trunk of a 
tree, and looking away out beyond the hazel- bushes — “unhappy! 
Oh! that word isn’t near vast or deep enough for the wretched- 
ness I feel. How should it be otherwise ? I’ve lost all I care 
for, and every one is cruel to me.” 

“ Cruel to you!” he echoes. 

“I am a disgrace and a burden to them, and 1 shall be all my 
life; so wouldn’t it be a good thing for me to die, and leave off 
troubling them and being miserable myself ?” I ask. 

Mr. Carruthers puts his gun down against the tree, and com- 
ing close up to me, takes both my hands in ’his. The frank 
honest eyes look very eager as he says: 

“ There is some one you would never be a disgrace or burden 
to, or anything else but the greatest blessing in the world. Miss 
Doris, won’t you let me try to make you happy? If you will 
only consent to be my wife, there is nothing I won’t do to try 
and bring the smiles back into your face. I'll take you away 
from all these scenes that make you miserable, and 141 answer 
no one shall ever speak a harsh word to you again.” 

I don’t turn away, nor take my hands from his, but look stead- 
fastly in his face. 

“ I wonder why you care so much for me,” I say. “ I am not 
pretty, nor clever, nor very amiable either.” 

“You are in my eyes,” he answers quickly, “ and if you are 
not, it’s all the same, I love you. It’s my fate, perhaps; I can’t 
help myself; but no woman was ever to me before what you are, 
nor ever will be again. Do what I may, I canH forget you, and 
Heaven knows I’ve tried hard enough.” 

“ Are you willing to take me, disgraced as I am?” 

“ Who says you are disgraced?” he asks sharply. “ I don’t 
think you know what pain it gives me to hear that word from 
your lips. Tell me ” (beseechingly), ‘ ‘ how came it that you were 
out with him all those hours ?” 

“ I went to say good-bye to him.” 

“ And— and — forgive me — no, I won’t ask you,” he says reso- 
lutely, turning away. “ I know whatever you did was innocent 
and pure. ’Yes; I’m content to take you as you are.” 

“ And are you content to have me, knowing that I have no 
heart to give you; that I can’t even make the poorest pretense of 
loving you?” 

I can see how my words wound him, but I feel it a kind of 
stem duty to say them. 

He pauses a moment, and then answers, looking in my face 
with kind, eager eyes: 


142 


MY HERO. 


“ How can I say I am content, when I long so intensely for 
your love ? But I would rather have you on the terms you offer 
than any other woman whose love was free to me. To have you 
mine, no matter how, seems almost too much happiness.” 

“ Very well,” I say, quietly, “then it shall be as you wish. 
Only remember that you take me with your eyes open; and if 
some day you are disappointed that I feel so little for you, you 
will have no right to blame me.’ 

For answer he kisses both my hands. It is very good of him 
to spare me any warmer demonstration of his joy. I don’t think 
I could bear it just now. 

He walks with me nearly to the farm, and then I turn to bid 
him good-bye. 

“ May I not come any further?” he pleads. 

“ No, not to-night?” 

“ To-morrow ?” 

“Yes, to-morrow.” 

“ May I bring the phaeton, and drive you out?” 

“Yes, thanks, I shall like it very much.” 

“ Goc^-bye, my darling — I am so happy!” 

“ Are you ?” I ask, blankly, wondering how he can be happy, 
seeing how miserably cold and indifferent I am. 

“ Try and like me a little, won’t you ?” he whispers. 

“ Yes,” I answer, mechanically. “ Good-bye.” 

“A demainr he calls out, cheerily, vaulting the gate, and 
beaming a glad smile upon me out of his blue eyes. 

I walk slowly across the road, and into papa’s room. He is 
writing, and gives just a glance up as I enter. 

“ I have done as you desired me,” I say, in a cold, quiet voice. 

“ Eh, what ? — what do you mean?” he asks. 

“ I am going to marry Mr. Carruthers.” 

“ My dear child,” cries papa, jumping up and coming toward 
me. “ This is good news; I congratulate you.” 

“You need not,” I answer, recoiling, “it is no happiness to 
me. I have been forced into it.” 

Then I turn slowly, and go away up-stairs to my bedroom. 
But when I get there, a sense of shame and self-reproach steals 
over me, for having spoken so to my father; after all, it is my 
good he seeks, though he does not understand how bitter it is to 
me to man-y one man, loving another. From that day I have 
no more sharp words or cold looks at home; it almost angers 
me to be treated with so much consideration. When 1 was in 
need of their tenderest sympathy, they could be hard and un- 
feeling; now, only because I am to be the wife of a great man. 
I am overloaded with attentions and affections. I don’t blame 
papa and mamma; they are naturally anxious for my future, 
but I do feel bitter toward my sisters. Not for long though — 
happily mine is not a disposition to harbor resentment, and after 
a time I can accept their marks of affection, and promise them 
all they ask for the future with a good grace. 

As for Mr. Carruthers, he is too good to me. I think he must 
spend all his time in considering what presents he can make me, 
and how he can invent some new distraction for me. He teaches 


MY HERO. 


143 


me to ride, drives me out every day in his phaeton, or on his 
drag, and we are always lunching or dining up at the park. I 
am to have a pair of ponies like Lady Cecil’s — or handsomer, if 
they are to be got. He insists on my devising new furniture and 
hangings for the rooms that are to be mine; and as for diamond 
rings and lockets, fans and smelling-bottles, and every knick- 
knack ever invented for lovers’ presents, he brings me enough to 
stock a small shop. 

One day, when he is showing me the diamonds he means to 
have re-set for me, I cannot help saying: 

“How good you are to me! I shall never be able to repay 
you.” 

“ Yes, you will a great deal more than repay me,” he whis- 
pered, “when you begin to love me.” And stooping down he 
kisses my lips. 

For all the diamonds in creation I could not have helped 
snatching myself away. 

“ You know what I told you!” I cry, almost passionately. 
“You must not expect what I can’t give,” and he turns away, 
bitterly disappointed. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

HUMAN PERVERSITY. 

“ Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain, 

And struggle not to feel averse in vain; 

But harder still the heart’s recoil to bear, 

And hide from one — perhaps another there. 

He takes the hand I give not nor withhold. 

Its pulse nor checked nor quickened, calmly cold; 

And, when resigned, it drops a lifeless weight 
From one I never loved enough to hate.” 

The wedding is to take place in November. Mr. Carruthers 
would have it earlier, but I utterly refuse to consent. As it is, 
the haste seems to me indecent. Only four months from the 
time I was to have stood at the altar with one brother, I am to 
be the bride of the other. Sometimes it occurs to me to won- 
der what people think of my second engagement, and whether 
they look upon me as some heartless, unnatural wretch, devoid 
of those better feelings that govern poor humanity for the most 
part. Happily my intended marriage with Wilfred had been 
kept so very quiet, that it was not likely to be known or dis- 
cussed beyond just the immediate neighborhood. Scarcely any 
of Mr. Carruthers’ friends w^ere aware of it. 

This time the wedding is to be a grand one— is to take place 
in Colton Cathedral, in the presence of the bridegroom's friends. 
Lord Levinge is to be the best man, and Mr. Carruthers, usually 
so indifferent on the subject of dress, has requested that my at- 
tire may be as elegant and costly as possible. Some people 
may think that under the circumstances a quiet wedding would 
be in better taste. But I fully understand and appreciate the 
motives which actuate Mr. Carruthers in his desire for pomp 
and parade. It is to honor me— that every one may see how 
much I am to him, and how ijroud he is to have me for his 


MY HERO, 


344 

wife. I feel grateful to him for his generous kindness, and 
am glad to yield to any wish he expresses in the matter. 

And since I am to be his wife, I mind little whether the cere- 
mony is to be grand or simple, celebrated in a cathedral or a 
wayside chapel. So I thought when I was going to marry Wil- 
fred, but, ah! me, how different were the feelings that actuated 
the thought. 

My sisters are in a state of perpetual turmoil and delighted 
excitement. I envy them bitterly sometimes; but then they 
think I ought to be the happiest creature in the world. 

A fortnight before my wedding-day, Hepzibah brings a letter 
to my room. 

When I see the writing I tremble very much, I am fain to 
hide my face from her keen scrutinj^. 

When she is gone I turn it over in my fingers, feeling as 
though I dared not break the seal. It seems almost a crime to 
the man I am going to marry to read it, but then I muttered to 
myself: 

“ Who knows, perhaps he has made up his mind to it, and 
bids me forget him and be happy.” 

With a sudden effort I open it and read: 

“ Doris, is it true what they tell me, that your are going to 
marry Vivian? Was your love for me such a poor, weak thing, 
that in this little time you have lost all memory of what we 
were to each other in those days of supreme happiness? What 
of your vow never to love again — to live all your life on the re- 
membrance of your love for me — to be Doris Keane until you 
died ? That was not four months ago, and now they tell me that 
in a few^ days you are to marry him. I won’t talk to you of 
what my life has been since I parted from you. I don’t want to 
excite false sympathy in your breast, if it is indeed true that you 
have so utterly forgotten. If you loved me as I believed, there 
would be no need for me to tell you how I waited day by day, 
hoping against hope for just one word from you; and if you did 
not, it would be more useless still, since you w^ould not under- 
stand. I cannot realize it until I hear from yourself, that by 
your own act you are going utterly to cut off all hope of our 
ever being anything more to each other. 

“ You owe it me, at least, to tell me — and I shall wait to get 
my sentence from your hand. Oh! child, I think I could bear it; 
better if I knew this marriage was forced upon you, was hateful 
to you— but 

“ I must break off here — I dare not say any more. 

Yours until I die, 

“ Wilfred.” 

I sat staring blankly at the paper; all the old memories I have 
been trying so hard to drown lately rushing in a flood over me. 
A wild thought of running away from home, and so escaping 
this maiTiage, crosses my brain, but only to be thrust aside as 
hopeless. No, I cannot !-,o basely treat a. man who loves and re- 
spects me, and I dare not inflict such an in juiy on my family, wlio 
by their own showing have suil'ered so much through me al- 


MY HERO. 


145 


ready. Why could Wilfred not have left me in peace? It is 
very cruel in him to stir up all these painful remembrances that 
I have been trying so hard to bury in oblivion. 

“ You look cheerful, Mrs. Carruthers!” remarks Harry, satiric- 
ally, at breakfast, and I color angrily, and bend down over my 
plate. 

“ I know I shouldn’t look so glum if I’d got all the fine things 
I saw lying out on tlie bed last night,” pursues my brother. 

“ Hold you tongue, sir!” says papa; “ it's time you were off to 
school.” 

“I say, there is going to be such a set-out on the day,” con- 
tinues Harry, regardless; “ they’re going to roast droves of oxen, 
and everybody's to have unlimited swipes.” 

I am just in that humor when I cannot bear any allusion of 
the sort, and get up quickly from the table, not stopping to pick 
up the chair which in my haste I have overturned. 

All that morning I spend in writing to Wilfred. I pen a 
whole budget, describing what my life has been since we parted, 
and the reasons that have induced me to consent to marrying 
his brother. When it is written and sealed, I am in hot haste to 
get it posted — I can’t bear the thought of even a day’s delay; but 
I must post it with my own hands, and in the Colton post-office 
too, for I dare not trust it at the village shop, which is the usual 
repository for our letters. But to-day I am going to ride with 
Mr. Carruthers, and if I were to insist on dismounting to post 
my letter, his suspicions would of course be aroused. 

All day, after my epistle is written, I have serious misgivings 
as to the wisdom of sending fit; by night I resolve not to let it 
go. I destroy it and write a shorter one, but that shares the 
same fate. The next morning I pen another, and this time feel 
satisfied that I have done what is right, though it is very dif- 
ferent from the one my first impulse prompted me to widte. 

After dinner I start to walk into Colton on my errand; my sis- 
ters offer to bear me company, but do not press it when I de- 
cline, tliinking probably that I am going to meet Mr. Carruthers. 
I have gone a mile on the road, carrying my precious missive 
for fear of losing it, when I see my husband that is to be coming 
toward me on horseback, and with a vexed feehng I cram the 
letter into my pocket. 

“ What, out alone, Doris!” he says, coming up to me and 
speaking with a little air of proprietorship that chafes me. 
“ Why, how is that, darling?” 

“ I wanted to be alone,” I answer; “it’s a change now and 
then ” (hoping he will take the hint.) 

“ Where are you off to?” 

“ Colton.” 

“ But I don’t like your being seen alone there, dear— it doesn’t 
look well; and there are always a lot of those fellows loafing 
about.” (Those fellows mean the officers.) “I shall go back 
with you if you must go, and let Elsleigh wait for me.” 

“ No, don’t,” I say hurriedly, putting on my best smile; “ I 
don’t suppose ‘ those fellows ’ will look at me; and if they do b 
sha’n’t see it,” 


146 


MY HERO. 


“ Why, what do you want to do when you get there ?” he asks, 
rather discontentedly. “ Something very important?” 

“ Oh! no— not at all,” I answer. “ But it’s absurd about my 
not going alone. I used to do all the errands of the family at one 
time, and no one ever thought of objecting to my walking in by 
myself. 

His brow contracts a little. 

*‘It’s different, you know, now, dear; and, besides, it never 
ought to have been allowed. At all events, if you are bent on 
going, I shall go too.” 

‘‘ Then you will force me to go back,” I say, rather sulkily. 

“ I’ll tell you what, darling- 1 dare say your business will wait 
an hour— I’ll get rid of Elsleigh, and bring the phaeton round to 
drive you in.” 

It won’t wait,” I say desperately— “ I want to catch the 
post.” . 

“ Oh!” he exclaims, laughing, “ some little millinery business, 
I suppose, and of course that won’t wait.” 

He has dismounted, and is leading his horse slowly alongside 


me in the direction of Colton. 

“ Beg pardon, your honor,” says a voice behind, “ but I think 
the lady dropped this,” and I look up and see my letter in Mr. 
Carruthers’ hand. I clutch at my dress — there is a slit in the 
lining, through which it has dropped. 

His eye naturally falls on the direction, he gives a start, and 
the color rushes into his face. Then he looks at me standing 
guilty, covered with confusion. 

“ Doris!” he stammers, “ what does this mean ?” 

I snatch it from his hand as he stands staring blankly at me. 

“ Had I known you were still corresponding with my brother,” 
he says, with proud coldness, after a pause, ‘‘ I would have re- 
leased you from your engagement to me long ago.” 

I am overcome ^^dth sudden fear of him, of my family, of my 
future, if he breaks with me now. 

I have done nothing wrong,” I say, trembling; “this is the 
first time I have ever written to him since — since the day when 
we were to have been married.” 

Mr. Carruthers gnaws his mustache angrily at the allusion. 

“ There, take it and read it if you choose,” I say, desperately, 
holding it toward him. 

“ No,” he answers, pushing my hand away; and then, as if the 
temptation is too great, he snatches it from me, and breaks the 
seal. The contents are only these few words: 


“ It is quite true that I am going to maiTy your brother. He 
is very good to me, and I shall try and do my duty to him.” 


A look of great relief comes into his face. 

“Forgive me for doubting you,” he says, giving it back to 
me; but I tear it angrily to shreds, and scatter them to the 
winds. 

I forgot the horse, which gives a violent plunge as the white 
pieces fly in front of his nose. However, I am not sorry for a 
little distraction. 


MY HERO. 147 

“Why did you write that?” Mr. Carruthers asked presently; 
‘ ‘ have you had a letter from him ?” 

“ Yes ” 

“When ?” 

“ Yesterday.” 

A black, ugly, furious look darkens his face. 

“ By , it’s too bad!” he utters, in alow, concentrated voice. 

“Well ” (after a pause, coldly), “ perhaps, as it will cost you such 
an effort to do your duty to me, I had better relinquish all claim 
upon you. I have no desire for the metier of tyrant to your 
shrinking slave.” 

I have never seen him so angry, and feel a greater respect for 
Iiim. I am a coward. I dare not face the future that awaits 
me if he gives me up; so I say, piteously, “Please don’t be 
unkind to me.” 

He softens at once. 

“ I would not be unkind to you, child, for all the world, but 
you must think all this is awfully trying to me. If you hate 
me, I had better by half give you up at once than ruin both our 
Jives.” 

“ But I do not hate you,” I reply, in a low voice. 

“ Don’t you, darling?” he utters, tenderly, propitiated at once. 
“ But that’s not much. Do you think you will ever love me?” 

“ I will try,” I answer, faintly, like the miserable coward that 
I am. 

All! I see I am not made of that noble stuff of which heroines 
are molded. My resolves are grand enough, but when it comes 
to the point I dare not brave my family and go out alone into 
the world. 

He looks round to see there is no one coming — what would I 
give even for the sight of the most miserable tramp! — then he 
seizes me and kisses me there in the middle of the road. 

“You shall love me,” he says, passionately. “ And now come 
back with me, and promise me not to answer that letter at all.” 

“ I can’t,” I say. 

“ Well, then, only say it is true you are going to marry me. 
Don’t give him the triumph ” (with bitter emphasis) “ of feeling 
you are only going to do your duty by me. Will you promise 
me so much ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Thank you, my darling. I shall come round and take you 
out to-night. You’ll go home now, won’t you ?” 

“Yes.” 

I smile and he smiles, waving a kiss to me as he turns home- 
ward. 

“ Why on earth can’t I be in love with him ?” I mutter, half 
aloud, seeing him ride off looking so handsome on his superb 
bay horse. “ If I could only be fond of him I should be the 
liappiest woman in the world, instead of ” 

But I break ofiE without finishing my sentence. 


148 


MY HERO. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

VIVIAN UNDERSTANDS AT LAST. 

“ But ever and anon of grief subdued, 

There comes a token like a scorpion’s sting. 

Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued; 

And slight withal ma}" be the things which bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
Aside forever— it may be a sound— 

A tone of music— summer’s eve— or spring — 

A flower— the wind— the ocean which shall wound, 

Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound: 
And how and why we know not.” 

It is the morning of my second wedding-day. A dull Novem- 
ber sky, murky with gray masses of cloud, looms overhead, and 
a general sense of chilly discomfort hangs about the air. I am 
quite composed to-day; there is none of that anxious, nervous 
restlessness which possessed me on that morning four months 
ago, when the same ceremonial lay before me. I can sit quite 
still to have my hair braided, and stand with infinite patience 
wliilst they deck me out in my costly bridal array. A feeling of 
weariness and gloom pervades me, which I find it impossible to 
shake off, try how hard I may. 

“ You ought to be the happiest creature in the world,” I say 
to myself. “ You are going to marry a man who loves you with 
all his heart, a man handsome, rich, kind, who will heap every 
luxury about you,” but somehow the spur is not sharp enough to 
goad my fiagging spirits, and I am still oppressed with a feeling 
of lonely wretchedness. 

I forbid myself all thought of Wilfred. I won’t admit one 
traitorous thought to Mr. Carruthers — now that I am to be his 
wife, I will, I will forget that I ever loved his brother. 

The same ceremony of dressing goes on as that last time, only 
my sisters have not so much leisure to spare from their own 
toilets to-day, as there will be no lack of spectators to witness 
tlieir grandeur. However, they come in to give a finishing 
touch after my new maid has arrayed me, and pronounce me 
beautiful. I stand for a moment to contemplate myself in the 
cheval glass, and see there a small slight figure hung with long 
graceful folds of lustrous satiif, a white face with large sorrow ■ 
fill eyes glancing through a film of costly lace, and a glitter of 
diamonds that I wear sorely against my will, to please him. 

I try to wreathe my face with smiles. It is unfair and ungrate- 
ful to him to look miserable on my marriage-day, when he has 
been so good, so generous to me. The attempt terminates in a 
sickly grin, and, such as it is, it must do duty for the glad blush- 
ing smiles that become a happy bride. 

It is not the old Colton fly with its wedding -pair that takes 
papa and I to this wedding; we have an elegant carriage, with 
a dashing pair of bays. 

Mr. Carruthers has taken care that nothing shall be forgotten 
to do me honor. Jack helps me in with grave politeness. IIow 


MY HERO. 


149 


I miss that hearty kindness and good-will with which he bade 
us let by-gones be by-gones that last time I 

“ Jack, I whisper, piteously, have you nothing to say to me 
to-day — no good wish for me ?” 

“ I hope you will be happy,” he answers, with cold courtesy, 
as he might have spoken to an utter stranger. 

“ Jack!” my lips are trembling, my voice sounds husky, but 
papa jumps in, and there is no time for more. 

Papa does not say much on the way. I think he has had an 
uneasy feeling toward me ever since that evening when I told 
him of my engagement. 

Just as we are rattling over the stones leading into Colton, he 
says hurriedly; 

“ I hope, my dear child, that your new life will be a happy 
one. You must feel that any steps I have taken to induce you 
to this marriage were taken with a view to your advancement 
and happiness.” 

“Oh! yes,” I answer, mechanically. “I am quite sure of 
that.” 

And then we drive up to the cathedral, and pass through a 
great crowd assembled to see the wedding. I am quite com- 
posed— there is no nervous fluttering at my heart as I walk 
slowly up the vaulted aisle, lined on either side with eager spec- 
tators. In the chancel are assembled a large party of all the 
great people in the neighborhood. 

Mr. Carruthers is an immense favorite, besides holding a lead- 
ing position, and every one has elected to do him honor by ap- 
pearing at his wedding. I can see him laughing and talking in 
whispers, looking rather excited and very happy. He casts a 
proud, fond glance at me as I come up leaning on papa’s arm, 
and hastens to take his place beside the altar. 

There is no delay to-day — the ceremony commences at once, 
and is performed by a bishop and an uncle of Mr. Carruthers, 
assisted by two or three more dignitaries of the church. When it 
is over, my husband lifts my veil, and kisses me heartily. Then 
we proceed into the vestry, and I sign myself Doris Keane for 
the last time. Somehow Doris Carruthers does not sound so 
sweet in my ears as it did once before — ah! well, I must forget 
all that, since I have just sworn to keep me only unto him until 
death us do part. 

The wedding-breakfast takes place in the Colton Assembly- 
rooms, as our little house is not a tithe big enough for the guests 
invited. I try to smile and look glad as I sit beside my hand- 
.some husband, that my white, wan face may not make too 
noticeable a contrast to his radiant one. He is pressing my 
hand fondly under the table, and entreating me to eat. I would 
if I could, but am obliged at this very outset to break my prom- 
ise of obedience. My throat seems swelled up, and I can scarcely 
swallow a morsel. 

Then came the speeches, and Mr. Carruthers returns thanks in 
his quiet, well-bred voice, without a shade of stammering or 
awkwardness. He says siiniily that he is the proudest and hap- 
piest man in England, and can only hope that he shall prove 


150 


MY HERO, 


himself worthy of the treasure that has been confided to him. 
What sweet flattery these words would have contained for me 
if— ah! well, I’ve made up my mind to bury those old memories 
now. 

Then there are more speeches — every one is very kind, and 
says complimentary things about me, and after that I go away 
to take off my bridal attire, and assume the costly traveling 
dress that is spread out for me up-stairs. When I come dowm 
there are more compliments and congratulations, much kissing 
from my family, and handshaking by the guests. Then my 
husband gives me his arm, and w^e descend the broad steps to the 
carriage-and-four waiting to bear us to the next station beyond 
Colton. There is no throwing of old shoes, but all the bells 
are ringing, and the crowd gives us a hearty cheer as we drive 
off. 

“My darling,” he whispers, with a fond kiss, when we are 
clear of the town and curious eyes, “ I am so awfully happy— I 
will do all in my power to be worthy of you.” 

And I smile a faint response, and abandon my small cold 
hands to him. A kind of lethargy has fallen upon me, from 
which I try in vain to rouse myself. When we are in the train, 
I sit back with closed eyes, feeling the effort to talk insurmount- 
able, and preferring to seem as if I have fallen asleep from sheer 
weariness. After a few futile attempts to get a little conversa- 
tion from me, Mr. Carruthers takes to looking out of the win- 
dow, and I see that there is a cloud on his brow. Well, I suppose 
it’s not very enlivening to a man on his marriage-day to be sit- 
ting tete-a-tete with a silent, melancholy-looking bride. I feel 
sorry for him, and yet somehow can’t bestir myself to make him 
less discontented. It is quite dark when we arrive at our desti- 
nation, and are ushered into the magnificent suit of rooms that 
have been prepared for our reception. 

“ It wants an hour and a half to dinner,” says Mr. Carruthers. 
“ I think if you don’t mind I’ll go down-stairs and look about 
me a little.” 

“Yes, do,” I responded, eagerly; and he goes out. 

I sit down quietly by the fire, my maid comes in to ask if I 
will take my things off, but I dismiss her with: 

“ I will come presently.” 

I have sat for some time gazing at the glowing coals when a 
strange, sudden feeling of awful horror and misery comes across 
me. I rise softly and blow the candles out; and then, oblivious 
of all but a sense of utter despair, I bury my face in my hands 
and sob aloud in my unbearable anguish. "All the recollection 
of that other wedding comes rushing across me, all the memory 
of what Wilfred might have been to me, in a torrent too great 
and fierce to stem; and I sob and sob out my misery and despair, 
forgetful of who may come in and find me in this sore plight. 
Suddenly I am roused with a great start, by a voice close at my 
elbow— a voice I know, but that sounds so strained and bitter, 
I scarcely recognize it. 

“ Do you hate me so badly as this ?” it says; and looking up in 
teiTor I see by the fire-light my husband’s face, with a look of 


MY HERO. 151 

such unutterable pain tliat I am stricken with an agony of self- 
reproach. 

“ Oh! no, no!” I gasp out, between my sobs. 

“ It is my own fault,” he says in the same voice, “ and I sup- 
pose I must bear the consequences. Don’t sob in that agonized 
way. t You need not be afraid that I shall trouble you with a 
love that is so utterly abhorrent to you.” 

And before I can prevent him he has left the room, and I am 
standing staring blankly at the fire, filled with the most bitter 
contrition and self-reproach. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

“I WOULD AND YET WOULD NOT.” 

“ I do repent; but Heaven hath pleased it so. 

To punish me with this, and this with me.” 

July has come round again. I have been married eight 
months. During that time we have traveled abroad, have spent 
a season in London — now we are home again at Southcote. Am 
I happy ? — am I even contented ? — often enough I ask myself 
that question, and a sigh answers me. I think I might be if my 
husband loved me as he used. That seems a strange tiling to 
say, when I have spent so much time in bewailing my fate and 
the odious marriage into which I have been forced; but it is true 
nevertheless. 

Mr. Carruthers is quite altered from what he was a year ago. 
One would have pronounced it impossible that a frank, impulsive 
nature such as his should be capable of so great a change; but it is 
the case, nevertheless, for all that. The bitter tears and tribula- 
tion in which he found me on my wedding-day, seem to have 
worked a complete revulsion of feeling in him— to have brought 
before him for the first time the real conviction that he was and 
alw’ays would be repulsive to me. And to this day he has never 
in the least degree overcome that conviction, and shuns being 
alone with me as much as possible. 

He is never happy unless we are in a. vortex of dissipation. 
Now that we are at home, and I would fain have a little quiet, 
he insists on filling the house with friends. When I say insist, I 
mean that he expresses his wish so strongly that I never dream 
of opposing it. I feel, at least, that I owe him that. He is 
kindness and generosity itself— nothing is good enough for me — 
my slightest wishes are anticipated, and yet he seems to shrink 
from the smallest demonstration of affection for me, so that I 
begin almost to wonder if he cares at all for me. Courtesy, con- 
sideration, attention, he gives me — tenderness never— or if some- 
times he has relapsed into a little of the old manner, he will get 
up and go away abruptly, and next time we meet his manner 
will be quite cold. In some men such behavior would scarcely 
surprise me; but when I remember how, in the old days, the 
ieast word or look from me would bring him back gladly, how- 
ever bitterly I might have vexed him, it appears utterly incom- 
prehensible. I am piqued by his coldness. I have a new feeling for 
fiim that I never should have known wliile he continued to 


152 


MV HERO. 


lavish the old affection upon -me. It gives me a little prick of 
shame to think it should be possible for me to come off my 
pedestal of martyrdom, to be forced to own that I am really be- 
ginning to care for my husband, and that the old love I once be- 
lieved undying, is now little more than a memory. 

However, he seems bent on playing at cross- purposes, and it is 
more than probable that our estrangement will be a lasting one, 
for my pride forbids me to make the first advance, and trifling 
incidents are constantly occurring to separate us still further. 

I have been wonderfully well received by Mr. Carruthers’ 
friends — every one has taken me cordially by the hand, even 
Lady Elsleigh; but as Lady Flora and Lady Mabel are both 
about to make good Siatches, she can afford to forgive me for 
carrying off the great matrimonial prize of the neighborhood. 

Lady Cecil and I are what the world considers bosom 
friends; that is, we are constantly riding and driving together; 
sure to be of the same party at all the balls and race-meetings. 
In our hearts I believe we are both jealous of one another. I can 
never forget that she was once in love with m}’- husband ; some- 
tiines I think with an uneasy feeling that she still cares for him. 
Her voice is always lower, more subdued in speaking to him, 
and she tries to keep him at her side as much as possible. I could 
be almost angry and bitter at times to see how constantly he is 
with her, how much more he talks to her and seeks her society 
than he used; and there are times when I have a miserable 
dread that she is gaining an influence over him, which is sap- 
])ing up the little love he feels for me. Happily for me, I have 
learned not to wear my heart on my sleeve; my manner only be- 
comes a little colder when I am hurt and jealous, but that makes 
him avoid me more than ever. If I could only feel quite sure 
his love for me is unchanged, that I am as dear to him as I was a 
year ago, I think I could go to him and confess that I have at 
last grown to love him. But what if he should say, “ It is too 
late now. I have conquered my love for you. I shall never 
feel the same again.” That thought effectually deters me. And 
the constraint between us is such that, when little misunder- 
standings arise, which a word of explanation with most hus- 
bands and wives would suffice to set right, we choose rather to 
suffer in silence than to say that word; and so the breach goes 
on widening. 

One day soon after our return to Southcote I am wandering 
through the rooms, and presently turn my steps toward the long 
picture-gallery where the family portraits are hung. 

It is a dull, wet morning, and a fancy takes me to have up the 
housekeeper, and hear if there are not some ancient traditional 
stories belonging to them, such as are usually connected with 
the pictures in old houses. Mrs. Freeman has been forty years 
in the family, so there is every chance of my getting a good deal 
of gossip out of her. 

“ I want you to tell me something about the pictures, Mrs. 
Freeman,” I say when she makes her appearance. “ I asked 
Mr. Carruthers, but he said he was not half so well up in them 
as you.” 


MY HERO, 


m 

“ Well, ma’am, I had ought to know a something about them,” 
she replies, with her pleasant smile, “ for my aunt, as come into 
tlie family seventy years ago come December, could have told 
the whole genology of every member of it that ever lived; and 
1 used to hear her repeat the whole history of them when I was 
a girl, and I haven’t forgot it yet, though I’m an old woman.” 

So we begin at the beginning. I am regaled with the wonder- 
ful exploits of the Carruthers in^past centuries, and presently 
we come to the dark, melancholy-looking picture that always 
reminds me so much of Wilfred. Mrs. Freeman seems as if she 
meant to slip over it, but I say, coloring uneasily : 

“You are passing one, the very one I am most curious about;” 
for I remember my husband saying the first time he took me 
into the gallery, that there was a story which he could not re- 
peat belonging to that picture. 

“ Well, ma’am,” says my informant, hesitating, “ I never do 
say much about that picture, for I’ve noticed that my master 
doesn’t seem to care about having it mentioned, but of course 
to you it’s different,” and she bobs me a courtesy. “ That’s the 
one as they used to call the wicked Carruthers. It’s reckoned 
very like Mr. Wilfred,” and she gives me a look askance, to see 
how I bear the mention of the name. 

“Yes, I think it is,” I remark, calmly. 

“ It's rather a long story, ma’am.” 

“The longer the better,” Isay, plunging into one of the big 
velvet chairs. “ I want something to make the time pass. What 
was his name, and when did he live ?” 

“In William and Mary’s reign, ma’am; and his name was 
Rupert.” 

“ Rupert— Rupert Carruthers,” I repeat, musingly; “ is that a 
family name?” 

“ Yes, ma’am — at least, there was a good many Ruperts before 
him, but there’s never been one since. Well, ma’am, he came 
into the estates very young, did Mr. Rupert (I had the story 
from my aunt), through Iris father dying when he was quite a 
boy, and he was always very masterful, and would have his 
way. He had no brothers, but there was a young gentleman 
who was brought up with him, and they were bosom friends, 
and hardly ever apart until they gi-ew up; and Mr. George 
Malingbroke — that was the other one’s name— took service in 
foreign parts. After some years he came back to England, 
bringing with him an Italian lady, as he called his wife, but 
some folks said he had carried her off from her husband. How- 
ever, she was the most beautiful creature that ever was seen in 
these parts— she had hair just like threads of pure gold, and 
great brown eyes, as clear as a child’s; and her skin it was just 
like thick cream, with a faint pink in the cheeks. I’ve seen the 
picture of her when I was a girl, but it was stolen out of 
tlie house one night, for the frame of pearls it was set in, I 
expect.” 

“ What a pity!” I exclaim regi’etfully, feeling a great desire to 
see this much-valued beauty. “ Was she really so lovely?” 

“ Ay, indeed, ma’am, if she was like her picture. I think it was 


154 


MY HERO, 


the most beautiful face I ever set eyes on. They used to say she 
quite turned the heads of every man as came nigh her, and 
could get them to do anything she chose, whether it was wicked 
or not. You wouldn’t have thought it either, to look at her, 
for she had those great, honest-looking eyes — but there, there's 
no trusting appearances. Well, she and Mr. Malingbroke come 
on a visit here to Mr. Rupert; and it was only just a very, very 
little time until he fell over head and ears in love with her, and 
I suppose she with him. B«t she, being full of cunning, per- 
suaded him to seem quite cool and indifferent to her before her 
husband, that he mightn’t suspect anything; and he, poor man, 
having such confidence in his friend, and being altogether wrapped 
up in his lady, never suspected any harm. Well, ma’am, they 
stopped a long time here, but at last their stay came to an 
end; and when they were really gone, Mr. Rupert seemed like 
one possessed. He used to wander up and down the place like 
an evil spirit for restlessness, and sometimes he would go riding 
off at night all over the country, and never come back till day 
dawn. However, one day he got a letter that seemed to make 
him very thoughtful, and for a whole day he shut himself up 
and spoke to nobody. The long and short of it was, ma'am, 
that the letter he got came from Squire Malingbroke, and in it 
he told him he had been accused of high treason, for some plot 
he’d been mixed up in — that his life was in danger, and that he 
was hiding away. He and his lady would be in the woods the 
night but one following, and he trusted to Mr. Rupert for friend- 
ship’s sake to find them safe shelter. 

“ So Mr. Rupert went out to meet them, and whether he and 
the lady planned it between ’em, I don't know, but he told Mr. 
Malingbroke as there was only one way in which he could really 
give him safe hiding — the lady must seem as if she had fled to 
him from her husband and come to live openly at the house, and 
then no one ’ud think of looking for him there, and he must be 
hid away in a little wood-house until some means was found to 
get them abroad. At first Mr. Malingbroke would hardly give 
his consent, but a man’ll do a great deal when his life’s at "stake; 
and then he trusted her and him both. So the real fact was 
that while he, poor man, was eating his heart out down in the 
old wood-shed, Mr. Rupert and the lady was leading a fine gay 
life up at the house, just as happy and "blithe as if there’d never 
been such a person living as poor Mr. George. I don’t know 
rightly how it came about — whether he began to get suspicious 
or not, but one night he crept ui3 to the house, and this was what 
he saw. The house was all lighted up and the windows stood 
open, while the table was covered with wines and fruit, and the 
lady was sitting-at Mr. Rupert’s feet with her head on his knees, 
while he played with the long yellow locks of her hair, and 
twisted the pearls in and out. All of a sudden she gave a little 
shriek; he started up, and there was a white, fierce face looking 
in upon them; and a moment after George Malingbroke springs 
into the room and dashes Mr. Rupert to the ground. When he 
gets up, what does he do but summons his people and give Mr. 
George up for a traitor to the king and queen. And so, poor 


MY HERO. 


155 


gentleman, he was took and executed. Somehow after that Mr. 
Rupert turned dead against the lady, and sent her out of the 
house, and wouldn’t see or speak to her. And one fearful night, 
when it thundered and lightened, and the storm raged so that 
no Christian would have turned a dog out, she came and beat at 
the door and prayed to be let in; but he forbade anyone to open 
to her. He was holding high feast with a lot of gay ladies and 
gentlemen, and he opened a window and called out to her some 
dreadful name, and bade her begone to a place as isn’t fit to be 
mentioned in your hearing, ma’am. And the next morning she 
was found dead under one of the trees in the park.” 


CHAPTER XXXVH. 

THE RACE-BALL. 

“You are crueler— you that we love — 

Than hatred, hunger, or death. 

You have eyes and breasts like a dove, 

And you kill men’s hearts with a breath.” 

Long after Mrs. Freeman has finished her story, and is gone 
away, I sit looking at the picture of Rupert Carruthers, and trac- 
ing in it the likeness to Wilfred. There are the same deep, 
melancholy eyes, the same beautiful curved lips, shaded by a 
silky chestnut mustache; and I sit pondering if the two men’s 
natures were as like as their features— if they were both as un- 
scrupulous in the gratification of their passions, as relentlessly 
cruel when they tired of their loves. I think -of how the one be- 
trayed the friend of his whole life, the other would have sacri- 
ficed the woman he loved — how the one left the mistress he 
idolized to perish in the storm, and the other deserted the wife 
he had been at such pains to woo, and hated her with a bitter 
hatred. The circumstances were different, but the natures that 
prompted both the same. 

A long time I sit with my eyes fixed on the handsome face of 
the wicked Carruthers, with an eager, searching gaze. Aroused 
at last by the sound of footsteps, I start up and see my husband 
just turning away from the door. I call to him, he does not an - 
swer; then I hurry after him. He is already half-way down 
stairs, and my sister Fanny is coming up. I feel vexed that he 
should have found me sitting in front of that picture; no doubt 
he thinks I am dreaming of his brother. But I cannot explain 
the matter now, and later on, when an opportunity occurs, I do 
not like to broach the subject. 

That same afternoon, when the rain has cleared off, Lady 
Cecil comes over and insists on our going over to Lofton to dine. 
I would gladly decline, but when Mr. Carruthers says he con- 
sents gladly if I have no other engagement, I am couipelled to 
accept. 

“ You must drive your ponies over,” laughs Lady Cecil, to me, 
“and we’ll have a chariot-race. Sir Marmaduke shall take 
charge of you, and I’ll have your husband to see fair-play.” 

So Mr. Carruthers orders my ponies, and when they come 
round I must perforce put up with the wearisome talk of Lady 


156 


MY HERO. 


Cecil’s senile lord, while she, triumphant and bewitching, bears 
off my handsome husband. He is laughing and talking to her, 
more like his old self than I have seen him this many a day; and 
I feel wretched, miserable, for I have been resolving to tell him 
my real thoughts about the picture, and to make some little 
overtures toward a reconciliation. 

I lose all thought of that now, even get to feel very angry 
when, on arriving at Lofton Park, I find Lady Cecil and Mr. 
Carruthers have made a detour, and don’t come in for an hour 
after us. 

I am silent after dinner, and have the unpleasant conscious- 
ness that I am looking both stupid and disagreeable. The w^orst 
of it is, I feel I have no right to reproach my husband, so, dur 
ing the drive home, I maintain a sulky silence, and he, after a 
few vain efforts to get something more than monosyllabic re- 
plies out of me, gives up the attempt in despair. 

Colton races are just impending. We have a large party stay- 
ing in the house, and drive over every day. Of course w’e are all 
going to the race-ball on the Cup day. Mr. Carruthers has made 
it a particular request that 1 shall be more than usually well 
dressed — entirely in white: and shall w ear the family diamonds. 
I wonder if he thinks of the day, tw o years ago, w^hen I went to 
my first ball in poor, cheap wdiite, and he thought that sim- 
plicity sweeter by far than Lady Cecil’s magnificence. I don’t 
like to remind him of it. I never venture to allude to the time 
when he loved me so dearly. 

After dinner on the Cup day I am very tired. I have been 
playing hostess for three days, the weather is broiling, and all to- 
day old acquaintances have been leaning over the carriage, talk- 
ing to me, or Mr. Carruthers has brought up fresh ones to intro- 
duce. I half hint that I should be glad to dispense wuth going 
to the ball, but he looks so really vexed, that I don’t venture an- 
other word. The race-ball is the great summer reunion of the 
county notables, and it w’^ould, I believe, mortify him extremely 
to appear there, for the first time after our marriage, without 
me. He comes in to see me w^hen I am dressed — the only time 
he has ever paid me such a compliment. I feel that I am look- 
ing well — there is a faint color in my cheeks, and excitement 
has put an unusual brilliancy into my eyes. Perhaps it is a little 
rustic vanity that makes my costly lace and diamonds look so 
magnificent in my eyes. I feel a kind of childish vanity at wear- 
ing them in Colton, where so many people must remember me 
in my cotton gowm and old straw" haL 

I don’t think that those who are born to the purple can have 
half the delight in wearing it that others do w-hoare decked w ith 
it in later life. 

My husband, coming in softly, stands looking at me while I 
pose for his inspection, wdth a little air of pleased triumph I can- 
not restrain. For a moment I fancy I see the old proud, foiul 
look gleam in his blue eyes; he makes a quick step forward, but 
whether the presence of my maid, or some after-thought re- 
strains him, I know- not, but he ojdy smiles and says--“ I con- 


J/r HERO. 157 

grjitulate you on your appearance— you are looking charming.” 
and goes away again. 

An unreasonable sense of vexation steals across me. I feel 
ciuite angry with my maid for being there at all. If he had only 
taken me in his arms and said, “ You darling, you look the dear- 
est thing in the world— I love you,” I wouldn’t have minded the 
disarrangement to my magnificent attire a bit. 

“ Of course he wouldn’t,” I say to myself, “ with that stupid 
creature standing there like a stock;” but I wonder secretly 
whether he would have been equally undemonstrative had slie 
been away. 

I feel very discontented on my way to the ball, but am obliged 
to smile and talk to the two women who are with me. 

When we arrive at the Assembly Rooms, my drooping spirits 
revive — the strains of Godfrey’s waltzes put new animation into 
me, and very soon I am threading the delicious maze with Lord 
Levin^e, the best dancer in the room. I suppose it would ap- 
pear silly— I am afraid to suggest it, but I should so like to waltz 
with Viviqn. 

He looks on quite approvingly at the attention I am receiving, 
though he is not dancing very much himself. Twice, though, I 
see him waltzing with Lady Cecil, and it chafes me more than I 
care to confess. Am I always to be jealous of that woman ? 
She and I are standing close together toward the middle of the 
evening. Suddenly she turns and whispers to me: 

“ Take care, ma belle. Be prepared, and don’t look toward the 
<loor just yet.” 

Of course I, glance immediately in the direction I am told not, 
and with a violent start and blush see Wilfred standing there 
with his eyes fixed upon me. 

For a moment my brain seems to swim — my legs tremble 
under me, and I am obliged to steady myself on my partner's 
arm. As Wilfred catches my eye he threads his way slowly 
across the room toward me, whilst I make a futile effort to enter 
into unconcerned conversation with the man beside me. 

“ Doris, are you not going to shake hands with your brother r” 
says a low thrilling voice close at my ear; and Wilfred is stand- 
ing by me with outstretched hand, and a manner as quietly com- 
posed as if he had never been anything more in his life to me 
than my husband’s brother. 

I put "my hand silently in his, utterly bewildered to know how 
1 ought to act. 

“ Are you dancing, or can you spare me a few moments?” lie 
asks, still in the same voice; and my partner, a comparative 
stranger to us, evidently considering Wilfred’s claims greater 
than his, releases my arm and moves aside. 

“ Why are you here?” 

1 can find nothing else to say. 

He off el's me his arm. I do not know whether to accept or 
refuse it. Will my husband be angry if I take it, or will the 
world, that is ignorant of our secret, wonder to see me decline 
it ? I just pass my hand lightly through. 

‘•Whv i\m T here?” he answi'rs, in the unconcerned voice 


158 


MY HERO, 


in which he would have answered a similar question from a 
stranger. “ I haven’t missed tlie race-ball until last year for I 
don’t know how long.” 

“ Oh!” I mutter, completely dumfounded by his manner. 

“ You’ve been here before, haven’t you?” he continues, “last 
year ?— no, hardly last year— you’d scarcely had time then to get 
into waltzing cue again; it would take a month or two to recover 
a broken heart, I suppose, and be quite ready to re-commence 
the slave-market business. It must be two years ago — I think I 
remember you — a little ingenue, with a plain white frock. Ah! 
lace and diamonds are a vast deal more in accordance with femi- 
nine taste than cheap white muslin, even if they cover a broken 
heart— are they not, belle soeur T' 

His mocking tone grates inexpressibly upon me. If he had 
spoken with the old touching pathos it might have brought back 
some of the feelings he had been wont to excite in me, but now 
his tone and words half incense, half disgust me. 

“ I do not knoAv%” I answer, coldly. 

“Ah! you never were heart-broken, tant wieita’ S’” continues 
the sneering voice. “But tell me, what have you been doing 
with yourself all these months — traveling abroad? You must 
have found that a charming change from the retirement of your 
younger days. And you spent a season in London? — created 
quite a furore there, I "don’t doubt. London’s a delightful place, 
isn’t it ? I’ve spent some very happy days there ” (with a bitter 
sneer), “ especially last winter. That was about the time you 
were enjoying yourself abroad, you know.” 

I am silent, from sheer uneasiness and vexation. 

“I believe it gives immense zest to the enjoyment of you soft 
angelic-looking creatures to think that some poor devil is break- 
ing his heart about you,” he continues, with a peculiar smile 
about his lips. “ I was wondering, as I stood watching you from 
the door, what made you look so radiant. It was some moments 
before I could realize that the bewitching grande dame opposite 
to me was the little white-faced, sad-eyed Doris Keane that had 
haunted me day and night for many months. Marvelous what 
changes a year can work in some of us!” 

“ Yes,” I stammer, utterly at a loss what to say. 

“Do you think me changed?” he asks, the bitterness in his 
voice becoming even more accentuated. ‘ All my friends tell 
me I’m looking as if I’d been boiled up in ‘ Medea’s Cauldron.’ 
You are changed, I think — for the better — diamonds are wonder- 
fully improving. I never was an advocate for beauty unadorned 
myself. But how silent you have grown, and you used to have 
so much to say.” 

“ I am a little tired,” I murmur; “ and besides ” 

“ Besides what? I haven’t hit upon a congenial subject, per- 
haps. I must try and find a better one. How do you like living 
at Southcote? It’s a wonderful change, I suppose, after the old 
farm, isn’t it?” 

Does he hate me ? Is this a petty waj’^ of revenging himself 
upon me, I wonder? I^ooking up, I catch my husband’s eyes 
fU'od upon me in auger and sur]n*iso. 


MY HERO, V^iJ 

“Have you seen— Mr.— your brother?’ I ask hurriedly of 
Wilfred. 

“No, not yet; ah! there he is! Excuse the impulse of brotherly 
affection;” and quietly dropping my hand from his arm, he 
crosses the room deliberately to where Vivian is standing. 


CHAPTER XXXVIH. 

A DETHRONED HERO. 

“But after all 
She left him.” 

“ Why, her heart must have been tough! 

How did it end?” 

“ And was not this enough? 

They met, they parted.” 

“ Child, is there no more? 

Something within that interval which bore 
The stamp of why they parted, fum they met.” 

In fear and trembling I watch them meet — my husband look- 
ing angry, Wilfred perfectly unconcerned. A few^ words are 
exchanged between them, and then Mr. Carruthers crosses the 
room slowly to my side. 

“ Would you like to go home?” he asks. “ I wdll make your 
apologies to our guests.” 

I want to show him that the meeting with Wilfred has not 
produced any painful impression upon me; it seems to me that 
if I were to run away directly, my doing so might be misinter- 
preted. 

“ No, thanks,” I answer, smiling up in his eyes; “ I am not 
at all tired yet; and I have a whole string of dances to get 
through.” 

“ I think you had better go,” he whispers, looking earnestly at 
me. 

“ I would rather hot, indeed.” 

“As you choose,” he answers very coldly, turning upon his 
heel. 

Wilfred does not come near me again, nor does he dance. I 
see him talking to Lady Cecil and other old friends, and con- 
stantly I catch his eyes riveted upon me. I can see that Mr. 
(Jarruthers is deeply annoyed, and long to w hisper to him that 
he need have no fear for me from this unexpected meeting; but 
no opportunity for such a confidence occurs, and I have the 
painful consciousness of being misunderstood. 

The following day I rise with a severe headache, feeling utterly 
unfit for m}^ duties as hostess. It is a great relief when my hus- 
band proposes to drive the party over to the race-course after 
flinch, and to leave me quietly at home. When they are gone I 
betake myself to my owui little morning-room overlooking the 
lawn, and lay my w^eary head upon the sofa cushions, to court 
repose. A long "time passes; sleep will not be wooed until some- 
how, when I have given up all hope, I doze off. How^ long the 
sleep lasts I do not know-; but when I unclose my eyes Wilfred 


KIO MY HERO. 

in sitting beside tlie couch watching me. I start up terrified, 
crying: 

“ Oh, Wilfred! how can you be so imprudent?’’ 

“ Imprudent ? — why imprudent ? Have I no right to be under 
my brother’s roof-tree, belle chatelaine ? And what more sweet 
and simply innocent than to watch a sister’s slumbers ? Do not 
lie uneasy, jmur attitude was very graceful; you were not sleep' 
ing with your mouth wide open, nor breathing stertorously, I 
assure you.” 

His tone and manner are just the same as last night — if any- 
thing a shade more sneering and bitter. 

“ How did you get in here ?” 1 falter. 

“I’ve been wandering about, stealing amongst the trees just 
like some sneaking thief, watching an opportunity to see the 
woman I loved. Surely after I’ve submitted to that degradation 
for your sake, you won’t want to turn me out again directly.” 

“ Why did you not come openly and fairly then, instead of ex- 
posing me to the danger of seeming to receive you secretly ?” 1 
say indignantly. 

“Ah, ma eapricieuser he murmurs bitterly; “I might well 
take my hat after that, and bid you an eternal adieu. I would ” 
(passionately) “ if I could persuade myself that this was real, 
and not a clever piece of acting: it isn’t surely possible that the 
girl who could risk everything to come out and meet me at mid- 
night, should only a year later be playing the part of the most 
accomplished prude, and reading me a lecture on the impropriety 
of being in her sitting-room in broad daylight! What are you 
afraid of ? I’m not going to cut the bell-rope and smother you 
before you can call assistance; nay, you may ring now, and have 
me shown the door if you think it will materially improve your 
position with your husband and servants.” 

“ It is very cruel of you to come here at all,” I say impetuously; 
“ you must know how painful it is to us to see you, after all that 
has happened.” 

“ Us!” he sneers; “ what sweet pictures of connubial felicity 
that word conjures up!— one heart, one mind, one- soul! You 
are very happy then, sister Doris— you and your husband ? You 
have overcome that terrible repugnance to him that made all his 
wealth and possessions of no value in your eyes some eighteen 
months ago ?” 

“ He is very good to me,” I reply resolutely; “ and I— I love 
him.” 

“ Ah!” says Wilred, “ your ideas have undergone a transforma- 
tion since I first saw you— what is it? two years ago? Do you 
remember the talks we used to have together in the woods ? You 
were sentimentally inclined then — prone to believe in love with- 
out the adjuncts of wealth and grandeur — the rose-shaded tum- 
ble-down barn was dear to your youthful soul, was it not, my 
sister ? You believed in your simple heart that one love could 
last a lifetime, and were ready to consecrate all your days to a 
memory, if the dear object proved unattainable. You would 
not believe me when I told you how hollow the world was — how 
faith, and tiaith, and love were chimeras — pretty pictures born 


MY HERO, 


101 


nud Imried in tlie romancer's brain! Wlio would have thoiiglit, 
then, tliat you would be able to teach me more of the bitterness 
and vanity of human hopes than even I knew or suspected?” 

His words roused me to indignation. 

“What right have you to accuse me?” I cry hotly, “ when 
all the time that you were filling my foolish head with your 
grand talk you were living and acting a lie yourself ? I loved 
you, it is true; but do you think if I had known from the begin- 
ning that you were another woman’s husband I should ever 
have permitted myself to harbor one thought of j^oii? And how 
did you practice truth and faitlj? By ruining, or trying at least 
to ruin, the lives of the two weak women who were foolish 
enough to give up all their hearts to you. You cannot delude me 
any longer with your story of being inveigled into an unequal 
marriage by an artful woman. I have seen your wife — yes, it 
is quite true. 1 have heard her version of the story, and I be- 
lieve it. You might as well do her the justice of telling the 
bare truth, after j^our cruel desertion of her. Why did you not 
say that her beauty was irresistible, that you gave the reign to 
your passion, and that rather than forego your desire, you were 
willing to make even the tremendous sacrifice of marrying her? 
I suppose you loved her better even than you professed to love 
me; for in marrying her you sacrificed yourself — in persuading 
me to marry you, you would have brought shame upon me. 
Faith, truth," love!” I cry. waxing bitter at such a taunt from 
him, “it is you who are unfaithful — it is the very essence of 
your nature — when you had ruined my life, you would have 
tired of me and shaken me off without one grain of compunc- 
tion!*’ 

All the time I am speaking he keeps his eyes fixed on my face. 

“ Ah,” he says slowly, when I relapse into silence, “ you have 
gained a new insight into my character since last year. It is 
l^erhaps the easiest way of banishing the memory of a forgotten 
love to persude oneself that the object is base and unworthy. 
Why don’t you be honest, and tell the truth?” (with bitter anger). 
“Why don’t you say, ‘I never really loved you. A foolish 
fancy told me once that I did, but when my eyes were opened to 
see the superior advantage of bestowing my affection on your 
elder brother, I cast all memory of you off like aii old glove.’ 
When I met you first,” and his voice falls into the old pathetic 
accents, “ I thought you were a sweet, simple little child, with 
a great loving heart, who some day woujd expand into a noble 
woman, capable of a love that would give inestifnable happiness 
to the man happy enough to win it. I thought tlie little sordid 
desires and vanities of other women had no part nor lot in you. 
I said to myself, ‘ Here at least is one heart pure from covetous- 
ness, from selfish ambition,’ and I longed for your love as only 
those whom bitter disappointment has tortured can long. And 
for the punishment of my folly I found you more utterly heart- 
less than any creature wearing the semblance of a woman that 
ever yet deceived me.” 

“ Stop,” I say rising, “ you have no right to speak to me in 


103 


MY HERO. 


this way. Whatever we have been to eacli other, at least remem- 
ber that I am now your brotlier's wife." 

“ This cHj2:nified virtue becomes you well," he retorts scorn- 
fully. “ Ihit you may rest perfectly easy. I have no designs 
injurious to the peace of my brother or his ivife. Oh, child!" 
he breaks off, with sudden passion, coming near and taking my 
reluctant hands, “ I could forgive you all, if only I had thought 
your heart was not grown utterly callous and indifferent to me. 
If you had shown some agitation, had given one little sign 
that the old memories were not all swept away. When I came 
into the ball-room, and saw you looking so lovely; the little face 
I remember pale and wan with gTief for me, all flushed and 
dimpling with happy smiles, I felt half mad. I should have 
liked to crush and hurt you, to wreak my revenge upon you for 
all the horrible hours of torture I have suffered for your sake. 
Do you know, child " (growing more vehement still)— “ have you 
the faintest shadow of an inkling of what my life was when I 
knew you were really going to be his wife — worse still when you 
had actually become his 

I do not love him now, but I cannot help feeling somewhat of 
the old power of his voice. 

“ Hush!” I whisper imploringly; “ you must not talk so to me 
indeed.” 

“What!” he answei’s harshly, “ J can afford to suffer these 
infernal tortures, and yet your ears are too dainty to hear of 
them. Pshaw! what a fool I am! You have your fine clothes 
and your stepping horses — what should you care if a poor devil 
breaks his heart about you!” 

“Wilfred!” I cry, passionately, “ if you loved me you would 
not be here now— when you knew that we could never be any- 
thing more to each other you would have kept away: you would 
have a thousand times rather suffered in silence and absence 
than come to destroy my peace of mind when I was striving to 
be happy and do my duty. What good can come of dragging 
up all these miserable memories, when we know that our only 
happiness lies in forgetting them ? You talk of faith and honor, 
while the very fact of our being in this room together now is the 
strongest breach of both. If you knew the real meaning of rtie 
words you would not be here.” 

He turns away with a quick, impatient gesture. 

“ The men who can love and keep away are cold, half-hearted 
lovers. They don’t feel what I did — what I do r and he grasps 
my arm tighter still, and looks into my face with an eagerness 
that frightens me. 

'‘AVilfred!” I utter, imploringly, “I beseech of you to go! 
You must not, shall not talk to me in this way. Think if Vivian 
were to come home now.” 

“ Parlez de Vane .'” he says, quietly, with a glance out of 

the window. 

I looked round terrified, to meet my husband’s eyes fixed full 
upon me; he is just passing the window with Lord Levinge. 
The guiltiest creature in the world could not start a crimson 
more painfully than I do. I see the black furious look come 


MV HERO. 


1G3 


into his eyes tliat I have never seen but once before. He makes 
a step toward the window, and then checking himself puts his 
arm again through Lord Levinge’s and passes on. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

DESILLUSIONNEMENT. 

“ But to smile on 
As if I never went asidfe to groan, 

And wear this mask of falsehood even to those 
Who are most dear. 

Alas! no scorn, or pain, or hate could be 
So heavy as that falsehood is to me; 

But that I cannot bear more altered faces 

Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces, 

More misery, disappointment, and mistrust.” 

A SUDDEN fury against Wilfred fills my heart. 

“ There!” I cry fiercely, tears of hot anger welling up in my 
eyes, “are you content nowV — are you satisfied with your re- 
venge ?— do you think you have succeeded thoroughly in making 
him doubt and hate me ?” 

“ Pshawd” he answers bitterly. “ You have but to go and lay 
your heart on his breast, and look into his eyes with your soft 
loving ones, that are capable of cajoling the arch fiend himself, 
and he will believe, and be only too readj’- to forgive you. Tell 
him how you loathe me now you have learnt to love him— how 
I forced myself upon you; it will be delicious music in his ears.” 

“ It would be quite true,” I cry passionately. “ I loathe you, 
and I love him.” 

He stands for a moment speechless looking at me, and there 
comes into his eyes a terrible look of concentrated hate and 
anger. 

“ Ah!” he mutters, in a long-drawn breath. 

And then he comes up close to me, and grasping my arm like 
a vise, whispers in my ear words too horrible to repeat. I close 
my eyes with fear — an awful feeling that he is going to murder 
me darts across my brain; and then I forget everything. 

When I become conscious again my husband is bend^ing over 
me with miserable, anxious eyes. 

“ Is he gone?” I mutter, looking round the room. 

“ Yes,” answers Vivian, bitterly, “he is gone. And, by ! 

if he ever sets foot in the place again, he sha’n’t leave it scot- 
free, as he has done to-day. Since you won’t keep my honor, I 
shall know how to look after it myself.” 

“Oh! Vivian,” I cry, clinging to him, “don’t misunderstand 
me this time. I swear to you that I knew nothing of his coming 
— that I no longer feel any love for him.” 

He tears himself away from me almost roughly. 

“ I am no Othello,” he says, sharply. “ You need not tell me 
lies out of fear. If you have succeeded in making me cease to 
love you — don’t make me learn to hate you!” 

And with that he goes away, and leaves me, and I hear him 
.•ailing impatiently to the men to send my maid. 


1(34 


jlV HERO. 


And though my heart aches and throbs with passionate misery, 

I am forced to wear a smiling face, to sit at my liusband’s table, 
as though I were a happy wife instead of the most miserable, 
weary creature on the face of the earth. When every one else 
is quietly in bed, I steal to my window and sit there sobbing out 
my grief and pain. I wonder if any one else feels so utterly for- 
lorn and forsaken as I who have been loved so dearly. No one 
cares for me now, no one ever will again. I begin to reproach 
myself bitterly. What claim have I in my fickleness to an 
honest man’s true love ? When Vivian cared for me so dearly, and 
would have given all he possessed to make me love him, could 
be cold, captious, and indifferent — could choose to make my life 
a weariness with fretting after a man who, except for beauty, 
accomplishments, and a soft voice, was not worthy to tie his 
shoe-strings; and now, when he has done all 1 besought him, has 
left me to myself and ceased to love me, I am fretting my heart 
out after him. 

I break out into a rage against myself; and then I think, 
smitten with remorse, how I have spoiled and marred his life. 
He took me from a humble position when he might have mar- 
ried into the best families in the land; he delighted to heap me 
with honor, with luxury, wdth everything that the most ambi- 
tious woman could desire; and in return for it all, I wounded 
him to the quick, estranged him utterly, and am no more to 
him than the woman who bears his name, and sits at the head 
of his table, I never thought to lose him in this way. I was so 
confident of his bearing all the coldness, the slights, the caprices 
1 chose to inflict upon him as never once to dream that sud- 
denly his frank, kindly nature might turn and meet my coldness 
and reserve with equal pride. It seemed to me that a word 
would always bring him gladly back to my side, however bit- 
terly I might have wounded him; hut I had to learn that a na- 
ture like his, long-suffering to the last degree, is the hardest to 
propitiate when once turned. 1 could beat my head against the 
iron bars with rage, to think of my lost power over him — to re- 
member how little I am, how much I was to him. 

As the days pass, we become colder and colder to each other; 
there is every sign of outward courtesy in our manner, the 
world has no occasion to wonder or to look askance; but the 
breach is gradually and steadily widening, and a horror some 
times creeps over me that he is really growing to hate me. I re 
solve to myself that when our guests are gone, and we ar^ 
alone, I will make a violent effort to regain his affection. I will 
go humbly to him and confess that I have grown to love him. 
and beg of him some small portion of the great love he once 
gave me. I care nothing for the humiliation. I am ready to 
make any sacrifice only to bring some ray of love and happiness 
into our lives. 

But before I have occasion to carry my resolve into execution, 
I am seized with a wild fit of jealousy against Lady Cecil. 
There is nothing pointed in his manner to her, I cannot accuse 
him of paying her undue attention; and yet it seems as if by 
some chance they are always together, and I notice with bitter 


11 Y iiKno. la") 

niicery that lie seems more like his old self in her society. Of her 
leeling to him I have not a shadow of a doubt. I laiovv well 
enough why she is always making pretexts for seeing me, and 
^ming over to Soutlicote, or insisting on our going to Lofton. 
But my pride will not allow me to appear jealous or suspicious. 
I acquiesce in all the arrangements they make, smile and try to 
seem at my ease when all the while my heart aches with appre- 
hension, and I am sick with jealousy. If I dared, I should like 
to turn furiously upon him with bitter reproaches; but, in spite 
of my blind anger, I cannot help seeing that such a course 
would be utterly absurd and unreasonable. 

One bright October morning we drive out. Lady Cecil and I, 
to meet the shooting-party, and take some part of their lunch 
that has been forgotten. She and Sir Marmaduke are spending 
a day or two with us, for we frequently exchange visits in spite 
of being such near neighbors. 

I am driving my chestnut ponies; they are going splendidly, 
and I see with secret delight that Lady Cecil is a little jealous of 
them. I cannot tell how it is, but I have always a feeling of 
rivalry with her, and believe she has the same for me. I never 
care- so much about looking well, and being handsomely dressed, 
as when she is to be of the party; and I cannot help remarking 
the exquisite care and elegance with which she arrays herself 
when she comes to Southcote. 

“ You have wonderful taste in dress,” she once said, half 
supercihously, half discontentedly; and I answered with a touch 
of pique: 

“ No doubt I acquired it by studying you.” 

We come up with the shooting-party about three miles from 
home. They are preparing for lunch under some trees a little 
way from the road. My groom has got down to run to them 
with the hamper as Mr. Carruthers and Lord Elsleigh saunter 
toward us. Suddenly there is a sharp report from a gun close 
by, followed in quick succession by two more; the chestnuts 
rear and begin to plunge furiously, and before my husband, who 
makes a frantic rush, can get to their heads, they are off like 
mad things. The worst of it is, they have got on the turf, and 
the carriage sways to and fro, rolling and bumping over ruts 
and mounds, with no weight behind to steady it. I have not a 
great deal of nerve at the best of times, but I manage to sit still 
and guide them straight, loosening the rein and checking sharply 
at their mouths every moment to prevent them getting the bits 
between their teeth. But they .only toss their heads and rush 
on more furiously. My great fear is that Lady Cecil will jump 
out; she keeps moving to and fro, and uttering little screams. 

“ Pray sit still! pray sit still!” I cry every moment, speaking 
thickly, and not daring to take my eyes off the ponies. They 
don’t run a very ^-eat way; it happens to be a long, straight 
piece of turf leading out on a common, and in about half a mile 
I pull them into a walk, and presently to a standstill. 

“ Hold them while I stand at their heads, until Mr. Carruth- 
ers comes up,” I say, offering her the reins. 

“ Not for the world,” she answers, shuddering and gasping. 


IGG 


M V HERO. 


“ Horrid creatures! I liope you mo' 11 never tliink of driving 
tlieni again. 1 ahvays thought they had a vicious look in their 
eyes. I don’t like chestnuts.” 

“ It M-as quite sufficient to frighten any horses in the w'orld,” 
I say nettled. “If Adams had been at their heads, they Mould 
have stopped quiet enough, it M-as just a little contretemps." 
And I turn my head to see if any one is coming to our rescue, 
for the ponies are still fidgety. 

A"es, Mr. Carruthers is fiying on our track, and a long way 
after him poor Adams toils frantically— behind him again mors 
stragglers. 

Vivian comes up looking very white. 

“Thank God you’re safe, my darling,” he says, in a choked 
voice, putting his hand on mine, and Muth the old look of ten- 
derness in his eyes. “You shall never drive those brutes again.” 

A glad flush rises to my face, but dies aM’ay again in a mo- 
ment as I hear Lady Cecil’s voice. 

“ Vivian — Mr. Carruthers! come and take me out,” and then 
she leans on his shoulder, and indulges in a fit of hysterics. I 
sit up angry and rigid, Mffiile Adams comes rushing up. Lady 
Cecil is out on the grass, supported by my husband, M’eeping 
bitterly. 

“ Get in behind, Adams!” I say in a quick sharp voice. And 
as he obeys, I turn the ponies' heads round and prepare to drive 
back down the road. 

“Doris! Doris! what are you thinking of?” shouts my 
husband. “Stop, I desire you — stop till I can come to you!” 
But my blood is up; I am in a rage and don’t care an atom 
Mffiether they start off again or not; so, heedless of his impera- 
tive voice, of his shout to Adams, who dares not obey him, to 
take the reins, I start them off at a smart pace down the road 
M^e came. I stop when Sir Marmaduke, Lord Elsleigh, and the 
other men come up. 

“ Lady Cecil is very much frightened,” I say, in a quiet voice 
to her husband. “ Mr. Carruthers is trying to pacify her, but I 
dare say you will be able to reassure her better.” 

“ I congratulate you on your nerve, Mrs. Carruthers,” exclaims 
Lord Elsleigh; “but hadn’t you better get out noM^? I Mmuldn’t 
drive them any more to-day— they seem very fidgety still.” 

‘ ‘ I am going home now at once to send the carriage for Lady 
Cecil,” I reply; “she Mmn’t trust herself Muth me any more,” and 
I make a si^n to Adams to jump in. 

Lord Levmge puts his foot on the step and gets in beside me. 

“ If you are such a determined little lady,” he says, quietly, 
“ I shall come and see you don’t get into any more mischief.” 

I am not sorry for his company — he and I are gTeat friends, 
and I would give the world to make my husband jealous at this 
moment. It is just as M^ell he came too, for the ponies start and 
shy at everything on the road home, and I am fain at last to re- 
linquish the reins to him, and rest my aching arms in my lap. 
What with fright, excitement, anger, and the doubt that I have 
been guilty of a most impolitic action in showing my resentment 
and disobeying my husband, I am almost ready to cry. 


MY HERO. 


167 


“ Don’t take any notice of me,” I whisper, as I see Lord 
Levinge’s eyes bent curiously upon me, “ I am very silly.” 

“I think you are very plucky,” he answers, kindly — “the 
worst of it is your spirit is too big for your body.” 

After lunch he prefers remaining with me to going in search 
of the shooting party, and at his request I seat myself at the 
piano, and sing a string of my old ballads, while he lounges be- 
side me in an arm-chair. So Lady Cecil and Mr. Carruthers find 
us when they come in later, and I am very glad of further op- 
portunity of piquing my husband, who does not seem in the best 
temper in the world. 

“ How could you be so imprudent, Mrs. Carruthers,” cries Lady 
Cecil, “ as to drive those runaway ponies home ? We were quite 
alarmed for you, were we not?” (Turning to Vivian), 

“ I was not at all uneasy myself, I assure you,” I reply, flush- 
ing a little, but endeavoring to speak very calmly. “ Lord Lev- 
inge was good enough to bring me home, and I felt perfectly 
safe with him,” 

“ I shall sell the brutes,” says Mr. Carruthers viciously. 

•* Indeed, I hope you will do nothing of the kind,” I answered 
(juickly. “ I should be extremely vexed if you did.’^ 

“ 1 don't consider them safe,” he says, gnawing his mustache 
angrily, “ Women never know their danger." 

“ Indeed, 1 mean to drive them to-morrow,” I say, a little of 
my old fire blazing up in me, I shall feel every confidence if 
Lord Levinge will be good enough to go with me.” 

“ If I thought you were really serious,’^ responds my husband, 
flashing an angry glance upon me, “ I would send them off at 
once, this afternoon.” 

This is the first time we have ever had the shadow of an alter- 
cation, and it makes us both feel better to each other. 

That night I hear him pacing up and down for hours in the 
room next to mine. I wonder, as I listen to the continued tramp 
of his feet, if it is of me he is thinking— if it is anger and impa- 
tience against me that he is venting — or if he still has something 
of the old love for me. 

A sudden impulse comes across me that I vvdll go to him, and 
beseech him to let all this miserable mist of coldness and dis- 
trust be cleared up between us; and springing up, I throw a 
wrapper round me, and walk bare-footed across the floor b) 
the door. Before I reach it, a jealous thought of Lady Cecil 
slops me. I cannot forget how she called him Vivian, and leaned 
sobbing on his shoulder only to-day. 

Perhaps he is thinking of her now, and with a bitter, angry 
feeling toward them both I steal back to bed, and try to forget 
them in sleep. 


168 


MY HERO. 


CHAPTER XL. 

A “MEET.” 

“ Those who inflict must suffer; for they see 
The work of their own hearts, and that must be 
Our chastisement.” 

One November morning I ride to the meet with my husband. 
Many a time have I longed keenly to go a-hunting, but Mr. Car- 
ruthers always puts a resolute veto upon my aspirations. 

“Why w^on’t you let me go? — other women do.” I have 
urged petulantly half a score of times; but he only answers, 
shaking his head: 

“ The hunting- field is not a fit place for women, and nothing 
would vex me more than to see you riding to hounds.” 

If he would only say, “ The truth is, darling, I am afraid for 
you, I should be nervous and uneasy the whole time,” I would 
not mind so much, but he never gives me the only reason that 
would reconcile me to his refusal. 

“ I suppose you think I should tumble off,” I say resentfully. 

“No, I don t,” is the answer. “You have a first-rate seat — it 
is not that at all, but I don’t wish you to go.” 

“ Some day, when you are off, and I can’t get any one to give 
me a lead, I shall try a fence or tw^o,” I retort, half laughing, 
half defiant. 

An angry flush crosses his face. 

“ If I thought you meant it ” he begins quickly. 

“ What?” provokingly. 

“ Nothing,” he says, 'gnawing his mustache. “I am quite 
sure, as you know how strongly I feel on the subject, you won't 
wantonly vex me.” 

“ It is pure selfishness on his part,” I say to myself; “ he would 
not like to be troubled with me. Of course wdien a man is splen- 
didly mounted, well up with the hounds, and in the midst of a 
great run, it must be an awful nuisance to be hampered M'ith 
even the woman he loves best in the world; and when his devo- 
tion does not amount to that,” 1 add, bitterly, “ no wonder he is 
anxious to leave her at home.” 

“ You need not stop to pick me up if 1 get a fall,” say I, un- 
al)le to quit the subject: “ if you don’t look behind, you will be 
free from all responsibility. Some day when Lord Ltwinge is 
out I might go. He wouldn’t mind m.aking a sacrifice once in a 
way, and would pick me out a few easv jumps.” 

“ Doris!” utters my husband, sliarply. “ if you are jesting, t\m 
joke is a very bad one. Anyhow, the subject is one I don’t care 
to pursue. You know my express desire on the subject— I have 
no more to say.” 

'Diis morning 1 do not attempt any argument or entreaty, but 
being by this time tolerably reconciled to the inevitable, ri<le 
iranquilly along on my beautiful black mare to the mek. at 
Atherton Woods, four miles distant. My husband is a splendi<l 
rider, sits as if horse and man were one: and the pink is as be- 
coming to him as to most fair, good-looking Englishmen. I am 


MY HERO, 


169 


very proud of him in the well-worn coat and spotless boots that 
you might see your face in. His get-up is the perfection of 
neatness— the chestnut’s satin coat, saddle, bridles, all are excep- 
tional. 

A gray, cold mist hangs about the morning, with now and 
then a small spitting of rain; but before we get to the woods 
there are streaks of light in the sky, and a small white spot in 
the heavens indicates where Phoebus is trying hard to smile 
through. 

We are early, or, rather, the master is late, and Mr. Carruthers 
insists on my having a canter round the field with my gTOom, 
to keep me warm; he does not want to take the freshness out of 
his own horse. The hounds are waiting, taking gentle exercise 
up and down with the wdiips, to keep them quiet; but they 
don’t seem to relish the enforced inertion. Half a dozen men 
and more boys are lounging about with sticks, ready to begin 
beating as soon as the master comes up. 

Lord Elsleigh, Lord Levinge, Sir Marmaduke and Lady Cecil 
ride up, half a dozen of the — th from Colton, with several other 
people that I don’t know. Then a Mrs. Temple appears with 
her groom; a very pretty woman she is, with curly brown hair 
and great blue eyes; a splendid horsewoman, and possessing the 
reputation for being the fastest woman in the county. All the 
men like her: she never lacks a squire— par consequent she is 
not popular with the fairer or the unfairer portion of the com- 
munity. I like her; she might certainly be a little less risquee 
in her sayings and doings with advantage, but there is no 
treachery in her. 

We are all laughing and talking together. I confess to feeling 
very much piqued at the thought of being left behind just when 
the excitement and fun begin. 

“ You are going to hounds to-day, of course, Mrs. Carruthers,” 
says Lady Cecil, veiling the intended provocation with a soft 
smile. 

•‘No,” 1 answer curtly. “ Mr. Carruthers will not allow me; 
probably he does not think me sufficiently good at riding to try 
the experiment.” 

“It’s too bad!” cries Mrs. Temple. “Vivian” (she ha;^ 
known him all her life), “is it true you’re such an abominable 
tyrant ?” 

“ I am afraid in that one resriect it is, Nellie,” he laughs good 
hurnoredly. 

“ 1 should defy you,” she says, making a little nioue at him. 
“All the husbands in the world wouldn’t keep me back when I 
once heard the hounds giving tongue Why don’t you rebel, 
Mrs. Carruthers? i’ll aid and abet.” 

“ Very well,” 1 say, laughing. “ Come, Vivian, let me go tins 
once and if I get a fall I promise never to worry you any more.” 

A resolute shake of t-he head is thi' only response. 

“ Come, Vivian, don’t be obstinate,’' laughs Nellie Temple. 
“ If I promise to give her a lead, and go quietly for once! Yon 
know I have a cafital eye— no (>ih> can pick good places better 
than I ril give her a lead.” 


170 


MY HERO. 


‘‘And I will ride behind, to pick them both up,” said Lord 
Levinge, with his quiet smile. 

Mr. Carruthers turns away looking vexed, and making no 
answer. 

“ Very well,” says Mrs. Temple, “ as I am not allowed to make 
a sacrifice on the altar of friendship, I mean going to-day, I 
say, Charlie” (turning to a man who has just come up), “ you 
gave me a lead last time; you can follow me to-day, for I see 
you’ll want some one to take the top rails off, and make a few 
openings for that great blundering brute you’re on.” 

The gate at the side of the field opens, and in stream a dozen 
red-coats, the master, and a party from Borough Park. A mo- 
ment for cheery “ good- morning — how are you?” to every one, 
and then the huntsman, whips, and dogs are off into cover, the 
beaters scramble on in front, and we ride two and three abreast 
down the glade, laughing and talking, a pleasant excitement 
making our pulses beat a thought faster. 

It is a sweet, pretty sight: the trees are still well covered with 
leaves, though it is the third of November, for we have had 
no frosts to speak of yet; the sun is beginning to throw long 
slanting ra5^s through the branches on the lush-green grass and 
trailing bushes — on some two score fine horses, fretting, danc- 
ing, showing themselves in a fever of restrained excitement — on 
the picturesque scarlet coats and manly figures of nearly as 
many comely, well-looking men — and on three blue-habited 
Amazons. Down the glade we go at a, smart trot, stooping our 
heads to evade the low-hanging boughs, oiir horses plashing 
through the soft wet ground. Presently we come to a round 
open space, where there is a big water- pool and a great log of 
felled timber; and here we rein up to listen for the hounds. 

“ You can manage her, Doris, can’t you?” says Vivian, a little 
bit anxiously, as La Reine tosses her head about, and makes little 
fidgety starts, unable to control her impatience. 

“ Of course — she’s only a little excited,” I answer, smiling, for 
I am not nervous on horseback. 

“ You promise to go home the moment they find,” he urged, 
almost imploringly; and I answer: 

“ Yes, of course, if you wish it.” 

“God bless you, darling! Good-bye,” he says, hurriedly, for 
at this moment there is a shout from the huntsmen, a clamorous 
cry from the hounds, and every one is preparing to rush back 
down thegladcis, the fox having broken cover. 

“ Keep close to your mistress!” shouts Vivian to the groom. 
“Hold her in hand!” to me (no easy task, by the way, with 
twenty excited horses thundering up behind ),\and off Vivian 
dashes Tip the glade, with Lady Cecil close behind him. 

La Reine is pulling my arms off, as mortified as I am to be 
compelled to this disgraceful inertness, and I feel more than 
half minded to give her her head, and declare afterward I could 
not hold her. But Godfrey's hand is close to the bridle; he 
doesn’t mean to get into trouble with his master for his mis- 
tress’ sake; so I soothe and pat and talk to the mare, and she, 
tossing her head, fuming, chafing, fretting, throwing back great 


MY HERO. 171 

flakes of froth all over me, says plainly, “ It’s too bad to keep 
me here when I could be up with the best of them.’' 

It was a false alarm, or the fox has gone back to cover. Any- 
how, when we emerge from the wood, the dog’s are all spread 
about, there is a good deal of shouting, and everybody is riding 
to and fro, in a desultory, uncertain manner. Some gallop back 
into the wood, some ride along the field close to the hedge; the 
beaters are calling to each other, and dashing their sticks into 
the crisp leaves. Now a cry of “Forrard!” comes from the 
huntsman, and La Reine gets furious as her comrades pass her 
again full tilt. At the end of the field is a hideous steam-thresh- 
ing machine, which not one horse in ten will pass without giv- 
ing it a wide circuit. They’re off now, surely— but, no, another 
check — they are coming back. 

“We’d better be going, ma’am,” said Godfrey, respectfully. 
“ I don’t think the mare’ll stand all this galloping by her much 
longer — she giv a nasty kick the last time — and it’s enough to 
try the temper of a hangel, I’m sure, ma’am.” 

But I am looking jealously at Lady Cecil, who is still side by 
side with Vivian. They do not come quite up— the horn sounds 
— they turn again — yes, this time they are really off — there goes 
Reynard right across that big grass field! — the dogs streaming 
after him; horses and riders in mad pursuit. With keen chagrin 
my eyes follow them. From a slight elevation of the ground we 
see them quite well; some going straight as a dart — some mak- 
ing slight, some wide detours, but all going at a mad pace, filled, 
as I think, regretfully, with delirious excitement. 

How is this?— here is one scarlet coat left behind, only just 
now emerging at a slow pace from the wood. A tremor seizes 
me as I recognize Wilfred. Riding quietly up, he takes off his 
hat with distant politeness— and then, coming nearer, holds out 
his hand, Godfrey drops behind. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

MY BROTHER. 

“ You loved, it may be, more than I; 

We know not, love is hard to seize. 

And all things are not good to try; 

And life-long love’s the worst of these 
For us, Felise.” 

“You here!” I say, bewildered. “ I did not see you before.” 
• “I came with Sir George, but was seized with sudden dizzi- 
ness. I’ve been rather subject to it of late, so I thought it better 
to give up hunting for to-day.” 

Is he telling the truth ? 

“You don’t ride to hounds, of course,” he says, with a polite 
sneer. 

“ Why of course?” I ask, coloring with annoyance at his tone. 

“ A thousand pardons if I have affronted you,” he answers, 
irritating me still more by remarking my vexation. 

“ As you say, why of course ? Only generally when one takes 
to a thing late ” 


A 


172 


MY HERO. 


I don’t ride to hounds because Vivian does not like it,” I say, 
sharply. 

Ah!” with a little acquiescent bow. “ Is his objection one of 
uxorious solicitude, or because he finds one lady enough on his 
hands out hunting?” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ Nothing, only that I conclude Sir Marinaduke has devolved 
liis responsibility on Vivian’s shoulders, as he has always been 
Di Cecil’s cavalfer when I have been out — at least lately. She 
certainly looks marvelously well on horseback — her figure is so 
svelte, so exquisitely proportioned. As she rode down the glade 
with Vivian, I could not help thinking of those lines from Ten- 
nyson. You know Tennyson, don’t you? 


“ ‘ She looked so lovely as she swayed 
The rein with dainty finger tips, 

A man had given all other bliss ’ 


Ah! pctrdo?!,” he breaks off abruptly. “I’m afraid you would 
not think the quotation very a propos.'’ 

There is something indescribably insulting in his tone, though 
his manner is exaggeratedly polite and deferential — it reminds 
me of the old time, when in his presence I was made to feel an 
acute sense of inferiority. But there is added the bitterness of 
luitred now. 

“Why should he hate me? and if he does, why cannot he 
avoid me?” I think. “ It is so small, so womanish to wreak a 
petty revenge by trying to humiliate me.” 

“I am not jealous of Lady Cecil, if you mean that,” I say, 
haughtily. 

“ I dare say you have no need to be,” he returns, coolly. “ It 
is not because Vivian wanted to marry her once that he should 
still care for her.” 

A deeper flush dyes my cheek — he may be only trying to mor- 
tify me— if that is his object, he succeeds. 

“Wanted to marry her!” I echo, my voice painfully tremu- 
lous. “ I think you are mistaken.” 

“ Non pas,’^ he utters lightly. “ It was I who prevented his 
carrying out the desire. You must know ” (speaking in a cool 
matter-of-fact tone) — “you must know I was in love with her 
myself once.” 

“Yes, I know that,” is my reply, given with some vicious- 
ness. 

A shade crosses his face, but he answers carelessly: 

“ The time I speak of is some years ago now, when you were 
running wild about the farm, with love quite unfledged in 
your innocent mind. As I said, I was in love with Di, and 
Vivian was also in her toils. Whether she liked him or me best 
personally, I cannot say; of course when it was a question be- 
tween the rich brother and the poor one, I need not tell you 
whom most she to appearance favored; however, I induced him 
to believe she cared for me, but was willing to take him for his 
money, so he gave up the idea at once. Then she married her 
present lord. It must have been awfully disappointing his 
going to living in this inconsiderate way. I don’t wonder at her 


nERO. 


171 ^ 


likiiify to linvo Vivian overvwliere about with hei*, ajid saint 
tlum^h lie is, I dare say forbidden fruit lias its temiitations even 
for him.” 

Bitter tears sprung to my eyes. I cannot choke down the knot 
that rises in my throat. Impelled by his cruelty I turn upon 
him like some unhappy goaded animal, crying painfully: 

“ AVhy do you hate me so?” 

“ Hate you, ma belle 9 I!” he utters, with a look of well-bred 
astonishment. “ No, certainly I do not hate you any more than 
I love you. I did once madly, passionately, as you know: but 
there are some people of whom we get desillusionne all of a 
sudden.” 

If he is acting a part, he is indeed an accomplished actor, 
nothing could be more thoroughly indifferent than his tone. 
The thrust goes well home — not for his sake, but because I am 
applying his words to my husband. 

Wilfred continues in a clear reasoning voice: 

“One expects too much of them; unintentionally perhaps 
they give one the idea of being something they are not— a mad 
fancy takes one — if they are unattainable, one is worked into a 
frenzy, and then some day quite suddenly one’s eyes are opened, 
another is added to the list of illusions perdus, and wondering 
what blindness can have beset one, one spends the rest of one’s 
days in devout thanks to Heaven for the mistake one has been 
spared.” 

“ You need not try to crush me too utterly,” I retort with hot 
scorn. “ I never pretended either to beauty, talents, or accom- 
plishments.” 

“ I suppose men get a kind of glamour thrown over them,” 
he says, musingly. “And in some cases it lasts. No doubt” 
(with a sneer) “ Vivian is as eperdu about you now as the day 
he consented to take you, knowing your heart was given (for 
the hour) to some one else.” 

There is strange meaning in his voice. Oh, he cannot surely 
suspect — cannot know that my power over his brother is gone- 
cannot have the cruelty to taunt me with it ? 

“Are you staying here?” I say, changing the subject ah 
ruptly. 

“ Yes — at Borough Park. I have invitations to every house 
in the county — except my brother’s. It is a little odd having 
the doors of what has always been home shut upon oik' — don’t 
you think so ?” 

We are in tlie road now: a horseman is coming swiftly to- 
ward us, riding at full gallop along the uneven grass by the 
roadside. As he comes up to us he checks his horse sharply. It 
is my brother Jack, equipped for hunting. 

“ You will be late, dear,” I say eagerly; “they found twenty 
minutes ago, and went off in the direction of Red Mill.” 

His brow flushes— he pauses a moment irresolute, then brings 
his home the other side of me. 

“ I should not be likely to catch them up now,” he says; “ I 
may as well go home again. Will you come with me to the 
farm, there is something I want to show you.” 


174 


J/V HERO. 


His voice is sharp and stern, an angry fire glitters in his eyes, 
No word of salutation passes between him and Wilfred, who as>> 
sunies the de hant en hnsair that is so utterly embaiTassing and 
uncomfortable. Mine is an extremely pleasant position— riding 
between two fully accoutered Nimrods, whom I am keeping 
from their pet sport by their anger, not their lo^'t', and who are 
besides at daggers drawn. 

“ By all means; I want to look over your place,” I answer my 
brother quietly, trying to put the best face on the matter. We 
all ride on together — the entire onus of conversation resting on 
me. First I address Jack, then Wilfred. From the former I get 
sharp curt replies; the latter treats me with the distant exagger^* 
ated courtesy that he always uses for his most stinging weapon. 
We ride on abreast for a mile before we come in sight of Jack’s 
farm. Why does not Wilfred leave us? Surely he might go 
now — but no, he rides off to the very gate; then at last doffs his 
hat low, shakes me formally by the hand, and, turning his horse, 
rides slowly down the road we have come. 

Jack dismounts, and without asking my consent lifts me from 
my horse, throwing the reins to the gi’oom; then, still silent, 
Avith loAvering brow he precedes me into the same dining-room 
which once I spent the long morning in arranging Ah, the dif- 
ference between then and now — when our hearts were so full of 
loAung confidence, our lips brimming over with tender words? 
I do not feel guilty as I stand beside him, though his glance is 
so sternly condemnatory — the meeting with Wilfred was none 
of my seeking, and Heaven knows my heart is free of love for 
him now! 

“ Will you take anything?” my brother asl ; me formally. 

“ No, thank you. Jack,” and then half amused, although I am 
miserable, at the stern perplexity written on his face, I stand by 
the table waiting for him to speak. He moves restlessly to and 
fro; opens and sliuts sundry drawers, stirs the fire and exhibits 
every sign of uneasiness common to the sex when a difficult and 
delicate task lies before them. Suddenly, as I stand watching 
him, a gleam of the old great love comes rushing through my 
heart, my pulses quicken, the knot rises in my throat, I go to- 
ward him where he stands by the big old-fashioned chimney- 
piece. 

“ Jack!” My eyes are full of tears; I hold two cold ungloved 
hands toward him. 

For a moment he seems to catch the infection, then he makes 
a great effort— the stern, steely glitter returns to his eyes, and he 
half pushes me away. 

“ I know what you think, Jack,” I say eagerly, before he has 
time to speak; “ but you are So wrong — so wrong!” 

“ Then what does your being together alone mean?” he asks, 
peremptorily. “ Why did he stop back from the hunt ?” 

“I don’t know; unless it was to have the pleasure of a little 
revenge,” I say bitterly. “ Pray don’t imagine any love pas- 
sages passed between us; he’s only opened Ids lips to say the 
most galling, mortifying things to me.” 


MY HERO. 175 

“ Then since he can still gall and mortify you, I hardly see 
how you can be indifferent to him.” 

“It wasn’t for his sake I felt sore, Jack,” I cry eagerly; “it 
was because he wanted to hint that — that ” 

“That what?” 

“ I would rather not say ” (stammering] and blushing un- 
easily). 

“ Then how am I to have any faith in you?” asks Jack, mak- 
ing as if to push me from him. 

“Jack, you may believe me, I swear!” I cry excitedly 
“ Bring your Bible here if you choose, and I will swear on it, by 
the solemnest oath you can dictate, that I have not an atom of 
love left for Wilfred — that there is only one man in the world I 
love passionately, devotedly, and that is my husband.” 

My brother looks at me more than half convinced, yet still a 
little wavering. As I stand there meeting with a firm gaze his 
penetrating one, watching the dear honest face, with the flick • 
ering blaze playing upon it, the old love comes back, mingled 
with a deep intense yearning for his sympathy, and with a great 
surging bitter memory of my husband’s apparent indifference. 
Of a sudden I push him into the great arm-chair, and throw my- 
self on my knees before him. 

“Jack!” I cry, with impassioned eagerness, my voice broken 
by strong emotion, “ have you quite forgotten what we used to 
be to ea^ other? — how you loved me, how you always took ray 
part? — how good and tender you were to me if I had any little 
childish trouble ? Don’t you remember any more how I loved 
you, better than papa, mamma, and all the others — don’t you 
remember. Jack? Oh! dear, dear Jack, do love rne once 
more — let me love you. You don’t know how I have suf- 
fered from your coldness! And though you may have blamed 
mo bitterly in the past, vvhen I seemed to act madly and fool- 
ishly, you might have had some pity in your heart for the agony 
of my punishment.- Oh! Jack, surely you might be true to me; 
if lovers and husbands grow indifferent, if they disappoint one 
so bitterly, surely, surely a brother’s love might hold steadfast 
to the end! A brother!— oh! Jack,” and a great burst of tears 
stops my utterance. 

The old light has been growing gradually in the dear frank 
blue eyes during my passionate appeal; and now, when break- 
ing down utterly I bury my face in my hands, he draws me to 
him, soothing me with the old tenderness. 

“ Hush! Ciss^, hush! dear,” he whispers in a shaken voice, 
“ so I will be the same to you again. When you have need of 
me I won’t fail you. There, dear, stop crying. You may trust 
me.” And he kisses my cheeks, my eyes, my forehead, drying 
my tears the while, as he used in the old times. 

By and by, when I am grown calm, we go out together, into 
the garden, over the farm. 1 insi)ect his stock, hanging lov- 
ingly upon his arm, bethinking me of by-gone days, and glad, 
ah! how heartily glad, for the new-born confidences between 

UH. 

He insists on my lunching at liis ])lace, and afterward rides 


176 


MY HERO. 


back to Southcote with me. My husband, returning early, per- 
suades him to stay and dine, and the two men go off together to 
look at some new farm buildings and discuss stock, finally sitting 
up late to smoke and play billiards. 

Is it my fancy, or is Vivian’s manner a shade colder to me than 
usual ? I cannot tell if he is aware of my meeting with Wilfred, 
and dare not be the first to broach the subject. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

O RICHARD! O MON ROl! 

“ Thy husband, thy lord, thy life, thy keeper. 

Thy head, thy sovereign, one that cares for thee. 

And craves no other tribute at thy hands 
But love, fair looks, and true obedience; 

Too little payment for so great a debt.” 

So at last after our long coldness Jack and 1 are reconciled. 
May I take it as a favorable omen that some day the clouds that 
lie darkly thick between my husband and myself shall be cleared 
away, and a new era of happy confidence commenced ? It is no 
longer in my power to deceive myself. I know that any real joy 
in this life can only come to the love that once I so ungratefully, 
loathingly spurned. 

“Oh! must it always be like this?” I wonder passionately; 
“ are all our best years to be darkened by this bitter estrange- 
ment ? Will it go on until it becomes a habit that we. neither 
seek nor desire to alter ?*' 

Once I resolve to take some violent measure that will at least 
chance the dull uncomfortable tenor of our lives, but something 
always occurs to prevent my carrying the plan into action. Once 
even I am on the threshold of my husband’s room with the words 
on my lips: 

“ Love me as you used, or let me go back home again. Any- 
thing is better than to live in the same house with this thick wall 
of ice between us.” 

But as I turn the handle softly and peep in I see his steward 
beside him, and a whole roll of accounts on the desk. I run out 
again ({uickly with a hot flushed face, and he comes to the door 
to ask politely if I want something. 

“ Oh. no,” I answer hastily, and run away. 

The next time we are alone Lady Cecirhas been up at the 
house, and I have an angry jealous fit u])on me. 

Sometimes I wonder that he does not see my wistful glances, 
or that he refuses so stubbornly to interpret them. Once now 
and then I have seeji the old tender look in his eyes, and he lias 
perhaps taken my hand suddenly, or made a step toward me; 
but then, as if checked liy some stronger feeling, has invariably 
turned away and rushed out of the room. 

I am oppressed by an awful, nervous dread of something hap- 
pening to him out hunting. Sometimes when I do not ride to 
the meet, I stand on the steps while he mounts, and seeing him 
look so stalwart and handsome in his pink, I long to throw mv 
arms round his neck, and bid him a loving God-speed, Why 


MY HERO. 


177 


don’t I. I wonder, and resoh^e often enough. And at the time 
an insurmountable shyness creeps over me, and I feel it impos- 
sible. 

One gloomy December afternoon, as I sit over the fire in my 
own boudoir, thinking, I hear the sound of hoofs galloping, and 
run to the window to see if it is my husband returning. Oh! if 
it only might be! I have just been resolving to go to him, and 
tell him how I love him; how wretched the life we now lead is 
making me. What a golden opportunity if he should only come 
home alone this dull afternoon! I will bring him in here, and 
then, perhaps — who knows? 

The horse comes in sight — an awful horror rushes across me— 
it is Vivian’s black hunter Amato— riderless! For a moment I 
stand paralyzed, as he rushes past the window toward the stables, 
then I dart into the hall to call the men-servants. 

“ Amato has come home without your master!” I say, trying 
to command my voice; “ go all of you in different directions 
and see what has happened. ” 

And then opening the hall door, only stopping an instant to 
throw a lace shawl round my head, I rush out of the house, and 
dowm the carriage-drive, never stopping till I get to the lodge gate. 

The woman who keeps it is standing out in the lane, looking 
very white and scared. 

•‘Oh Lord, ma’am!” she says as I come up, “I do hope the 
master isn’t killed, poor gentleman. 

I feel almost inclined to strike her for daring to hint at such a 
thing. If he were killed— O God! I should go mad. 

I pass by without a word, and rush wildly down the lane to 
tlie turning. No, there is no one in sight, and I tear back to the 
house to see if there is any news. I’he servants are running al- 
most in all directions, but no tidings have come as yet. I run 
back into my room, and falling on my knees send up an ago- 
nized prayer for my darling’s safety. I don’t deceive myself in 
this awful moment— he is my own, my only love — dearer than 
ever Wilfred was — the very core of my lieart. 

“ Oil,” I mutter, sick with terror, “if he only comes back to 
me safe tliis once, there shall be no more coldness, no more dis- 
trust, no more misunderstandings. I will go on my knees and 
confess iin’ love, beseecliing him to take me back to his heart.'' 

Then I start to my feet again, and rush down the avenue half 
a mile into tlie lane. Yes, there is something tliat looks like a. 
procession, and i rush on toward it, filled with an awful hor- 
ror: trembling' at what I shall see, but impelled by my mad- 
dening anxiety. As I get nearer, 1 see two men on horse- 
back, and between them four on foot, carrying sometliing on a 
hurdle. 

“ He is dead — he is dead!” 1 moan. Oh. never to the latest 
moment of my life shall I forget the anguish of hat moment 
Flying on, 1 I'ecognize Lord Elsleigh and Idr. Kingscote; as I 
« ome up witli them, they dismount. 

'■ Is he dead I gasp- clinging fora moment to Lord ElsleighV 
arm, and then I look at what the men are carrying. 

No^ no. no— dead- no (b d bless my soul, uo— pray becalm, 


178 


MY HEMO. 


niy ilear Mrs. Carriithers— a bad fall— nothing more, on my 
Avord. We have sent for the doctor, and he’ll be at Southcote 
almost as soon as we shall.” 

Then, as the men pause I get a glimpse of Vivian’s face — 
white, ghastly, rigid, and with a wild shriek I swoon right 
away. 

When I recover, 1 find myself at the lodge, vvith Lord Elsleigh 
standing over me, and the woman applying burnt vinegar to m}^ 
nostrils. 

“ Where am I ? Lord Elsleigh!” and then as the awful remem- 
brance rushes over me I start to my feet. 

“Oh! is he dead ?” I cry, piteously. “ I must go to him,” and 
1 prepare to dart off to the house, only my legs are so weak 
and trembling. 

“ Now pray, pray don’t be so terrified,” says Lord Elsleigh, 
kindly, “ it’s only a severe fall. I’ve had as bad myself. Dr. 
Samson has gone up to the house — it will be all right.” 

But I feel that he is deceiving me, and that my husband is 
dead. 

“ Take my arm,” he insists, and putting my hand through it, 
I speed along as fast as my tottering limbs will carry me. 

At once I make for the room where they have laid him — 
they would fain keep me out, but I won’t be kept away. For 
four-and-twenty hours Vivian lies insensible, I never leaving 
him a moment, though I suffer unutterable agony at sight of his 
blanched ghastly face. They can hardly persuade me that he 
still lives. I insist on sending for the most eminent physician 
in the county, and for one from London as well. Papa and Jack 
come to me at once. 

“If he dies,” I cry to them, clasping my hands wildly, “I 
sliall go mad.” 

And they try to comfort me. and tell me that it is concussion 
of the brain, but he will surely get over it. But I don’t, I daren’t 
believe them. Sometimes I pace the room like one distraught, 
sometimes fling myself on my knees beside him, covering his 
cold hands with tears and kisses; and when he opens his eyes, I 
feel half wild with joy. 

For days and niglits I never leave his bedside, except to snatch 
an hour’s sleep; during all that awful anxious time 1 neither go 
to bed, nor permit myself to be undressed. I have often won- 
dered since that my hair did not turn white with the unspeak- 
able anguish of that time, or that .some serious illness did not 
overtake me. 

At last he begins slowly to recover; the physicians pronounce 
lumout of danger, and I breathe once more. I am still the con- 
stant attendant at his bedside; he takes all his food and medicine 
from my hand; and though he scarcely speaks yet, he begins to 
watch me about everywhere with his eyes, and they tell me he is 
uneasy when 1 go away e\e!i for a moment. I (.‘annot be sure 
that he is fully sensible of it. Init I lavish every caress and en- 
dearment upon him, cover his face and hands with kisses, call 
him by every fond, dear name that love can invent, in my joy 
; I liaving him back from the jaws of death. Every one is'anx- 


iMY HERO. 


170 


ions to share in nursing him— his servants perfectly adore him; 
and my mother and sisters are very good and kind, but I can't 
bear any one to do anything for him but me, though they try to 
})ersuade me that I am killing myself by inches. 

“ One afternoon, when he is really better, and has just fallen 
into a quiet sleep, I betake myself down-stairs to Ins room to 
look for some papers that the steward wants. Carefullj'- I un 
lock his desk, thinking mournfully of the last time 1 saw him 
sitting there, strong, hale and handsome. Ah! how different 
from the poor wan invalid I have just left! The first thing tliat 
meets my eye is an envelope directed to me in his handwriting. 
I forget the errand I have come on, forget everything in my 
eagerness to possess myself of the contents of this letter. It is 
not sealed, and has evidently been left unfinished; but I take it 
with trembling hands from the cover, and begin to read; 

“My Darling,— I have often thought something might hap- 
pen to carry me off suddenly, a fall out hunting, perhaps, or the 
accidental discharge of a gun, and there are one or two tilings I 
shouldn’t like to die without saying to you. And, first of all, if 
it should so happen, don’t reproach yourself with the past; if I 
have anything to forgive, I forgive it freely, but I don’t believe 
I have. You have always seemed to me the perfection of every- 
thing that is pure and good in a woman; and though sometimes 
things have staggered my faith a little, like seeing you leaning 
on Wilfred that day here after the race-ball, I am sure if I hadn't 
been too proud to ask, or even to listen to you, you would have 
been able to explain it all. I needn’t tell you how dearly I have 
loved you ever since I knew’ you — you must surely know that, 
my darling, by this time; and I don’t want to make you un- 
happy by telling you how^ awfully I’ve suffered from your cold- 
ness and indifference to me. There liave been moments, just 
once now’ and then, w’hen I have fancied you w>'ere coming to 
care a little bit more for me; and the thought has driven me 
half w’ild; but I banished it again resolutel}^ forever after the 
awful remorse of that day wdien my eyes w’ere open to see the 
madness of marrying you, with the knowledge that you did not 
love me, I sw’ore to myself that until you came and put your 
arms round me, and told me you loved me, I w^ould never again 
seek to force my affection upon you. I have almost given up 
hope now’ of such a joyful time coming; but ” 

Here the w’riting ends, and I bury my face in my hands, and 
burst into a flood of tears, part remorseful, part bitter, part 
happy. 

“Oh, my darling!” I murmur — “when you are only strong 
enough to hear me say it!” for the doctor has strictly forbidden 
excitement of any kind for him. 

The days go on, he progresses slow’ly and surely. I am biding 
my time. He can talk to me now, can return my caresses and 
tell me vvhat a dear, sw'eet little nurse I am, and how happy he 
is to have me with him. 

When at last he is able to come down-stairs for the first time, 
my delight know’s no bounds. He is carried to the sofa in my 


j80 


MV TIBmO. 


room, and whoeled in fj ont of the bright cheery blaze; and there, 
as tlie dusk steals on, we sit happily hand in hand. I am on a 
stool at his feet, gazing thoughtfully into the fire, for lie has 
been silent some time, and I fancy he has dozed off. 

“ Doris!” he whispers presently; and looking up I see in the 
firelight his blue eyes fixed lovingly upon me. “ Doris!” and he 
strokes my hair: while I rest my cheek softly against his hand. 
“Tell me, my darling,” and the voice trembles strangely— “ all 
this love and tenderness you have shown me lately~is it only 
pity for my weakness and helplessness, or do you— do you really 
love me a little ?” 

My time has come now. Kneeling before him, I throw my 
arms round his neck and whisper, with happy tears in my 
eyes: 

“My own, I love you with all my heart; better than I ever 
loved Wilfred or any one else in all my life.” 

“ Doris! is it really true?” he says eagerly. “ I can’t believe it; 
but let me liear you say it again — it sounds so awfully dear and 
sweet.” 

I repeat it as he bids me. 

“It can’t be!” he says, almost fretfully; “you just say it to 
please me. Why should you just take to loving me now that I 
am a helpless cripple, when all this long time you’ve been so cold 
and indifferent to me? AVhen I am strong again, you will go 
back to the old feeling — this is only pity.” 

“AVhy, darling!” I whisper; “have you never seen all these 
months how I have been getting to love you, only I did not dai’e 
to show it, because I fancied you were changed to me.” 

“Oh, child, is it really, really true?” he cries, in an eager, 
broken voice; and then passionately, “ Kiss me, if you love me.” 

I lift my lips to his; and then a long happy silence falls between 
us, for we know that our love is perfect at last. 


[the end.] 



% W ^ agi ^ I 

B&arks the women of our households when they undertake to make thei* 
homes bright and cheery. Nothing deters them. Their weary work may 
ibe as long as the word which begins this paragraph, but they prove theii 
regard for decent homes by their indefatigability. What a pity that any 
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(ihe labor o£ cleaning and scouring at least cne-half. 10c. a cake. Sold by 
£ll jroeera. 

S^IAL SOLUTIONS 

{Solutions Sociales). 

By M. GS-OBIN, 

founder of ttie FamilisUre at Guise; Prominent Le.aaer of Inaustries in 
France ana Belgium ; Member of the National Assembly. 

TRANSLATED FROU THE FRENCH BY 
MARIE ROWLAND. 


I vol-, 12mo, illustrated, clotSi gilt, SI. 50. 


An admirable English translation of M. Godin’s statement of the 
course of study which led him to conceive the Social Palace at Guise, 
France. There is no question that this publication will mark an era 
in the growth of the labor question. It should serve as the manual for 
organized labor in its present contest, since its teachings wall as surely 
lead to the destruction of the wages system as the abolition movement 
lead to that of chattel slavery. 


JOHN W. LOVELL CO., Publishers, 

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Bt ii. W. CHAMPNEY 


BY THOMAS CAELYLE 


Bourbon Lilies 20 

BY BERTHA M. CLAY 

Her Mother’s Sin 20 

Dora Thorne 20 

Beyond Pardon 20 

A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

Repented at Leisure 20 

Sunshine and Roses 20 

The Earl’s Atonement 20 

A Woman’s Temptation 20 

Love Works Wonders 20 

Fair but False 10 

Between Two Sins 10 

At War with Herself 15 

Hilda 10 

Her Martyrdom 20 

Lord Lynn’s Choice 10 

The Shadow of a Sin 10 

Wedded and Parted lO 

In CupiTs Net 1(> 

Lady Darner’s Secret 25 

A Gilded Sin 10 

Between Two Loves .2(i 

For Another’s Sin 20 

Romance of a Young Girl 20 

A Queen Amongst Women ,..10 

A (Jolden Dawn 10 

Like no Other Love 10 

A Bitter Atonement 20 

Evelyn’s Folly 20 

Set in Diamonds 20 

A Fair Mystery 20 

Thoms and Orange Blossoms 10 

Romance of a Black Veil 10 

Love’s Warfare 10 

Madolin’s Lover 20 

From Out the Gloom 20 

Which Loved Him Best 10 

A True Magdalen 20 

The Sin of a Lifetime 20 

Prince Charlie’s Daughter 10 

A Golden Heart 10 

Wife in Name Only 20 

A W^^nan’s Error 

BY WILKIE COLLINS 

Ttie M(.onstone, Part 1 10 

The Moonstone, Part II 10 

The New Magdalen 20 

Heart and Science 20 

“I Say No ’’ 20 

Tales of Two Idle Apprentices 15 

The Grhofit’s Touch 10 

My Lady’s Money 10 

The Evil Genius 20 

The Gnilty River 10 

BY HUGH CONWAY 

Called Back J5 

Dark Days 15 

Carriston’s Gift 10 

Paul Vargas ; a Mystery .10 

A Family Affair 20 

Story of a Sculptor 10 

Slings and An-ows 10 

A Cardinal Sin 20 

Living or Dead 20 

Somebody’s Story,*, 10 


486 History of French Revolution, 2 

Parts, each 25 

494 Past and Present 20 

600 The Diamond Necklace ; and Mira- 

beau 20 

503 Chartism 

6' ;8 Sartor Resartus 20 

514 Early Kings of Norway 20 

620 Jean Paul Friedrich Richter 10 

522 Goethe, and Miscellaneous Essays. , . lO 

525 Life of Heyne 15 

528 Voltaire and Novalis 15 

541 Heroes, and Hero-Worship 20 

546 Signs of the Times 15 

550 German Literature 15 

561 Portraits of John Knox 15 

571 Count Cagliostro, etc 15 

678 Frederick the Great, Vol. I 20 

580 “ “ ‘ Vol. II 20 

^91 “ Vol. Ill ..20 

61C ‘‘ Vol. IV 20 

6Ly “ “ Vol. V 20 

f)22 ‘‘ » Vol. VI 20 

626 Vol. Vri 20 

628 ‘‘ “ Vol. VIII 20 


1 630 aeof John Sterling 20 

b33 Latter-Day Pamphlets -20 

006 Life of Schiller 20 

643 Oli'^r Cromwell, Vol. 1 25 

646 “ Vol. II 25 

649 ‘‘ ‘‘ Vol. Ill 25 

652 Characteristics and other Essays. . . 15 
656 Corn Law Rhymes and other Essays ,15 
658 Baillie the Covenanter and other Es- 

says ; 15 

661 Dr. Francia and other Essays 15 


BY J. FEHIMOEE COOPEL 


6 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

53 The Spy 20 

866 The Pathfinder 20 

378 Homeward Bound 20 

441 Home as Found 20 

463 The Deerslayer 30 

467 The Prairie 20 

471 The Pioneer 25 

484 The Two Admirals 20 

488 The Water- Witch ’...20 

491 The Red Rover 20 

501 The Pilot 20 

506 Wing and Wing 20 

512 Wyandotte 20 

517 Heidenmauer 20 

I 519 The Headsman 20 

' 524 The Bravo 20 

527 Lionel Lincoln. 20 

529 Wept of Wish-ton- Wish 20 

532 Afloat and Ashore 20 

639 Miles Wallingford 20 

543 The Monikins 20 

648 Mercedes of Castile 20 

653 The Sea Lions 20 

559 The Crater 2V 

562 Oak Openings 20 

670 Satanstoe 20 

576 The Chain-Bearer 20 

687 Ways of the Hour 20 

601 Precaution 20 

603 Redskins 25 

611 iwk Tier , * k - - . . 


LC /ELT/S T.rHRAEY. 


BY MRS. ANRIR EDWARDES 


)81 A Girton Girl 20 

BY M. BETHAM-EDWARDS 

203 Disarmed 15 

603 The Flower of Doom 10 

BY RALPH WALDO EMERSON 

373 Essays 20 

ENGLISH MEN OE LETTERS. 
EDITED BY JOHN MORLEY 

318 Bunyan, by J. A. Proiule 10 

407 Burke, by John Morley 10 

334 Burns, by Principal Shairp 10 

347 Byron, by Professor N ichol 10 

413 Chaucer, by Prof. A. \V. Ward lO 

4‘^4 Cowper, by Goldwia Smith 10 

377 Defoe, by William Minto 10 

383 Gibbon, by J. C. Morison 10 

225 Goldsmith, by William Black 10 

369 Hume, by Professor Huxley 10 

4'')1 Johnson, by Leslie Stephen 10 

380 Locke, by Thomas Fowler 10 

392 Milton, by Mark Pattison..., 10 

398 Pope, by Leslie Stephen 10 

364 Scott, by R. H. Hutton 10 

361 Shelley, by J. Synionds 10 

404 Southey, by Professor Dowden 10 

431 Spencer, by the Dean of St. Paul’s. .10 
344 Thackeray, b • Anthony Trollope. . .10 
410 Wordsworth, by F. Myers 10 

BY E. L. FARJEON 

243 Gautran ; of. House of White Shad- 
ows 20 

654 Love’s Harvest 20 

t)56 Golden Bells ,...10 

b74 Nine of Hearts 20 

BY HARRIET FARLEY 

473 Christmas Stories 20 

BY F. W. FARRAR, D-D. 

1 9 Seekers after God 20 

50 Early Days of Christianity, 2 Parts, 

each 20 

BY OCTAVE FEUILLET 

41 A Marriage in High Life 20 

BY J/IR15. FORRESTER 

760 yFair Women 20 

818 Once Again ..20 

843 My Lord and My Lady 20 

844-Dolori-s ...20 

8.50 MvHero 20 

859^Viva 20 

860 Omnia Vanitaa 10 

8Rl>iD:ana Carew 20 

862/l‘’rom Olympus to Hades 20 

B&i-'Rhoiia • 20 

864 Hoy and Viola 20 

865, - Juno 20 

866 Mignon 20 

167 A Young Man’s Fancy 20 


BY FRIEDRICH, BARON DE LA 
MOTTE FOUQUE 

711 Undine 10 

BY THOMAS FOWLER 

380 Life of Locke 10 

BY FRANCESCA 

177 The Story of Ida. 10 

BY R. E. FRANCILLON 

319 A Real Queen. 2t 

a56 Golden Bells 10 

BY ALBERT FRANKLYN 

1 22 Ameline de Bourg 15 

BY L. VIRGINIA FRENCH 

485 My Roses 20 

BY J. A. FRODDE 

348 Life of Bunyan 10 

BY EMILE GABORIAD 

114 Monsieur Lecoq, 2 I’arts, each 20 

116 The Lerouge Case 20 

120 Other People’s Money 20 

129 In Peril of His Life 20 

138 The Gilded Clique 20 

155 Mystery of Orcival 20 

161 Promise of Marriage 10 

25-8 File No. 113 ...20 

BY HENRY GEORGE 

52 Progress and Poverty 20 

390 The Land Question 10 

393 Social Problems 20 

796 Property in Land 15 

BY CHARLES GIBBON 

57 The Golden Shaft 20 

BY J. W. VON GOETHE 

342 Goethe’s Faust 20 

343 Goethe’s Poem s 20 

BY OLIVER GOLDSMITH 

61 Vicar of Wakefield 10 

362 Plays and Poems 20 

BY MRS. GORE 

89 The Dean’s Daughter 2C 

BY JAMES GRANT 

49 The Secret Despatch 20 

BY CECIL GRIFFITH 

732 Victory Deane 20 

BY ARTHUR GRIFFITHS 

709 No. 99 10 

THE BROTHERS GRIMM 

221 Fairy Tales, Illustrated 2(1 

BY LIEUT. J. W. GUNNISON 

440 History of the Mormons 16 

BY MARION HARLAND 

107 Housekeeping and lloniemaking.. . .15 

BY ERNST HAECKEL 

97 India aad Oeylou 20 


LOVELT/S LIBRAKY. 


BY F. W. xiACXLANDER 

606 Forbidden Fruit 20 

BY H. RIDER RAGCARD 

813 King Solomon’s Minee . 20 

848 She 20 

876 The Witch’s Head 20 

BY A. EGMONT HAKE 

?71 The Story of Chinese Gordon 20 

BY LUDOVIC HALEVY 

15 L’Abb6 Constantin 20 

, BY THOMAS HARDY 

43 Two on a Tower 20 

157 Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid 10 

749 The Mayor of Casterbridge 20 

BY JOHN HARRISON AND M. 
COMPTON 

414 Over the Summer Sea 20 

BY J. B. HARWOOD 

269 One False, both Fair 20 

BY JOSEPH HATTON 

7 Clytie 20 

137 Cruel London ,...20 

BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE 

37L Twice Told Tales 20 

376 Grandfather's Chair 20 

BY MARY CECIL HAY 

466 Under the Will ....10 

566 The Arundel Motto 20 

590 Old Myddleton'a Money 20 

787 A Wicked Girl 10 ■ 

BY MRS. FELICIA HEMANS 

SS3 Poems 30 

BY DAVID J. HILL, LL.D. 

533 Principles and Fallacies of Social- 
ism 15 

BY M. L. HOLBROOK, M.D. 

356 Hygiene of the Brain 25 

BY MRS. M. A. HOLMES 

709 Woman against Woman 20 

743 A Woman’s Vengeance 20 

BY PAXTON HOOD 

73 Life of Cromwell 15 

BY THOMAS HOOD 

611 Poems 30 

BY HORRY AND WEEMS 

36 Life of Marion 20 

BY ROBERT HOUDIN 

14 The Tricks of the Greeks .... . - ••1^0 


BY EDWARD HOWLAN® 


Social Solutions, Part I 

lu 


44 

Part II 

10 

(( 

44 

Part III 



44 

Part IV 


41 

«4 

PartV 

10 


44 

Part VI . . . 

....10 

44 

44 

Part VII 

10 

44 

44 

Part VIII . . . . 

10 

it 

44 

Part IX 

....10 

44 

44 

PartX 

10 

<4 

44 

Part XI 

10 

44 

4 

Part XII 

10 


BY MARIE HOWLAND 

Papa’s Own Girl 30 

BY JOHN W. HOYT, LL.D. 

Studies in Civil Service 15 

BY THOMAS HUGHES 

Tom Brown’s School Days 20 • 

Tom Brown at Oxford, 2 Parts, each .15 

BY PROF. HUXLEY 

Life of Hume 10 

BY STANLEY H ITNTLEY 

The Spoopendyke Papers 20 

BY VICTOR HUGO 

Les Miserables, Part 1 20 

“ “ Part II 20 

“ “ Partin 20 

BY R. H. HUTTON 

Life of Scott 20 

BY WASHINGTON IRVING 

The Sketch Book ..iK) 

Tales of a Traveller 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part 1 20 

Life and Voyages of Columbus, 

Part II 20 

Abbotsford and Newstead Abbey . . .16 
Knickerbocker History of New York, 20 

The Crayon Papers 20 

The Alhambra 15 

Conquest of Granada 20 

Conquest of Spain 10 • 

Bracebridge Hall 20 

Salmagundi 20 

Astoria 20 

Spanish Voyages 20 

A Tour on the Prairies 10 

Life of Mahomet, 2 Parts, each 15 

Oliver Goldsmith 20 

Captain Bonneville 20 

Moorish Chronicles 10 

Wolfert’s Roost and Miscellanies 10 

BY HARRIET JAY 

The Dark Colleen 20 

BY SAMUEL JOHNSON 

Rasselas 10 

BY MAURICE JOKAI 

A Modern Midas 28 

BY JOHN KEATS 

Poems 25 


742 

747 

758 

762 

765 

774 

778 

782 

786 

788 

791 

795 

534 

535 

61 

186 

369 

109 

784 

784 

784 

364 

147 

198 

199 

224 

236 

249 

263 

272 

279 

281 

290 

209 

301 

305 

308 

310 

311 

314 

321 

17 

44 

754 

“31 



The treatment of many thousands of 
cases of those chronic weaknesses and 
distressing ailments peculiar to females, 
at the Invalids’ Hotel and Surgical In- 
stitute, Buffalo, N. Y., has afforded a 
vast experience in nicely adapting and 
thoroughly testing remedies for the 
cure of woman’s peculiar maladies. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is the outgrowth, or result, of this 
great and valuable experience. Thou- 
sands of testimonials received from pa- 
tients and from physicians who have 
tested it in the more aggravated and 
obstinate cases which had baffled their 
skill, prove it to be the most wonderful 
remedy ever devised for the relief and 
cure of suffering women. It is not re- 
commended as a “cure-all,” but as a 
most perfect Specific tor woman’s 
peculiar ailments. 

As a powerful, invigorating 
tonic it imparts strength to the whole 
system, and to the uterus, or womb and 
its appendages, in particular. For over- 
worked, “worn-out,” “run-down,” de- 
bilitated teachers, milliners, dressmak- 
ers, seamstresses, “shop-girls,” house- 
keepers, nursing mothers, and feeble 
women generally. Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription is the greatest earthly boon, 
being unequalled as an appetizing cor- 
dial and restorative tonic. It promotes 
digestion and assimilation of food, cures 
nausea, weakness of stomach, indiges- 
tion, bloating and eructations of gas. 

As a sootliiiig and strciigtlicii- 
liig nervine, “ Favorite Prescription ” 
is unequalled and is invaluable in allay- 
ing ’and subduing nervous excitability, 
irritability, exhaustion, prostration, hys- 
teria, spasms and other distressing, nerv- 
ous symptoms commonly attendant upon 
functional and organic disease of the 
womb. It induces refreshing sleep and 
relieves mental anxiety and despond- 
ency. 

Dr. Pierce’s Favorite Prescrip- 
tion is a legitimate medicine, 

carefully compounded by an experienc- 
ed and skillful physician, and adapted 
to woman’s delicate organization. It is 
purely vegetable in its composition and 


perfectly harmless In its effects in any 
condition of the system. 

“Favorite Prescription” is a 
positive cure for the most compli- 
cated and obstinate cases of leucorrhea, 
or “ whites,” excessive flowing at month- 
ly periods, painful menstruation, unnat- 
ural suppressions, prolapsus or falling 
of the womb, weak back, “ female weak- 
ness,” anteversion, retroversion, boaring- 
down sensations, chronic congestion, in- 
flammation and ulceration of the womb 
inflammation, pain and tenderness ii 
ovaries, accompanied with internal heaf 

In pregnancy, “ Favorite Prescrip. 
tion” is a “mother’s cordial,” relieving 
nausea, weakness of stomach and other 
distressing symptoms common to that 
condition. It its use is kept up in the 
latter months of gestation, it so prepai'es 
the system for delivery as to greatly 
lessen, and many times almost entirely 
do away with the sufferings of that try- 
ing ordeal. 

“ Favorite Prescription,” when 
taken in connection with the use of 
Dr. Pierce’s Golden Medical Discovery, 
and small laxative doses of Dr. Pierce’s 
Purgative Pellets (Little Liver Pills), 
cures Liver, Kidney and Bladder dis- 
eases. Their combined use also removes 
blood taints, and abolishes cancerous 
and scrofulous humors from the system. 

Treating tlie Wrong Disease.— 
Many times women call on their family 
physicians, suffering, as they imagine, 
one from dyspepsia, another from heart 
disease, another from liver or kidney 
disease, another from nervous exhaus- 
tion or prostration, another with pain 
here or there, and in this way they all 
present alike to themselves and their 
easy-going and indifferent, or over-busy 
doctor, separate and distinct diseases, 
for which he prescribes his pills and 
potion^ assuming them to be such, 
when, in reality, they are all only symp- 
toms caused by some womb disorder. 
The physician, ignorant of the cause of 
suffering, encourages his practice until 
large bills are made. The suffering pa- 
tient gets no better, but probably worse 
by reason of the delay, wrong treatment 
and consequent complications. A prop- 
er medicine, like Dr. Pierce’s Favorite 
Prescription, directed to the cause would 
have entirely removed the disease, there- 
by dispelling all those distressing symp- 
toms, and instituting comfort instead of 
prolonged misery. 

“Favorite Prescription” is the 
only medicine for women sold, by drug- 
gists, under a positive guarantee, 
from tiie manufacturers, that it will 
give satisfaction in every case, or money 
will be refunded. This guarantee has 
been printed on the bottle-wrapper, and 
faithfully carried out for many years. 
Farge bottles (1(X) doses) $1.00, or 
six bottles for $5.00. 

Send ten cents in stamps for Dr. 
Pierce’s large, illustrated Treatise (160 
pages) on Diseases of Women. Address, 
World’s Dispensary Medical Associationi 
HO. 668 MAIN STBB£T, BUFFALO^ iV. T* 



A SpegiawborImm 








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